Your Wayward Girl
by el.abstracto
Summary: The drunken one-night stand that wasn't. Faberry Week day 3 .
1. A star, alone in the sky

Your Wayward Girl

. . .

Chapter 1: A star, alone in the sky.

. . .

All the passion and love in her heart sung to one place—this city.

She stood— crying for whole seconds—the very first time she ever got to call it home. Now, she belonged to it. She was its beacon—she shone for it.

"The difference between your success, and my success," Rachel Berry paused, watching Santana's dark eyes roll. She persisted, "The _difference_—"

"Wow interesting," Santana drawled, very slowly, "Now shut the fuck up."

Dark had descended perhaps two hours ago, but Rachel's internal clock estimated it was still very early in the evening. She gave a little gasp for show, but wasn't fussed about it particularly. She'd known Santana years and years.

"I hate when you interrupt stories in the middle, San."

And Brittany also—years and years.

Santana shook her head, pulling the tall diminutive blonde into the crook of her arm. She swayed into Santana like wheat stalk in the wind.

Brittany watched Rachel's vague hand gestures with bright eyes.

"Oh _fine, _Santana—be ignorant."

They walked along the street-light lit sidewalk with easy smiles—snow fell lightly; gleaming with the rusty shade of the lights. It was Christmas-time. Rachel was wearing a pink skating-cap that kept getting tugged over her face by Santana with a: "I get bored staring at your indignation, Berry" and a low chuckle.

They paused upon sight of the frosted, crystalline window of a brown-brick tavern—the name "Myra's" emblazoned in gold script across it. Rachel craned her neck up at them, "I'm parked approximately a block away, but do you want to stop in for drinks?"

They nodded simultaneously.

. . .

. . .

About half the crowd turned to watch them as they entered—quiet wonder at famous faces strolling leisurely into _some bar_.

The one thing Rachel hated—while she delighted in the attention—was the sudden halt in conversation whenever she stepped into a room. It felt too intrusive. People were sharing moments, private moments or ones with friends—and her very presence was disruptive to their dynamic; if only momentarily. She stuck her hands into her dress pockets and averted her eyes to the ceiling.

Dozens of girls sat, milling about small circular tables (lit subtly by tealight candles). They found one near the window—where Brittany wanted to be.

"Do you think there's service? Or should I go get our drinks?" Alcohol was almost always Santana's exclusive concern whenever they went out anywhere. She was far less sensitive to attention than Rachel; long-since used to being gawked at by bright, mal-intended eyes.

Somebody roared with laughter somewhere and the static din of conversation continued past the fleeting, star-struck lapse. Rachel no longer felt that she was being paraded through the room—her eyes swerved along the length of the bar.

. . .

Her disposition took a fall towards desperation; eyes dark. She stared, and not at all casually.

The girl was hunched over a book and a beer—blonde bangs tickled the bridge of her nose. It bothered Rachel; a tickle flittered through her face and she wished she knew the girl so she could tuck the wayward strands neatly behind her ear. Stare into her eyes unobstructed.

She was dressed in a green pea coat that seemed to sparkle—snow had fallen on her recently, Rachel realized (a tad delayed). For whole seconds she thought the girl must've fallen from the sky.

"I'll go get our drinks," Rachel told them, clearly interested.

Santana watched her, askance. She stared back innocently.

Dark eyes immediately snaked across the bar, searching faces, "A-ha! I'll _betcha _wanna get our drinks, _Gay_-Berry."

"Shut _up_."

Santana hooked a brow, "Are you really gonna be the awkward geek who tries to land the girl _pretending to read _in a _bar_? Ten bucks says she's waiting on a girlfriend."

Rachel nodded absentmindedly, "So…you think she's gay?"

Santana laughed and shook her head at the hugeness; the puerile obliviousness, of Rachel's eyes. She steered Brittany to their table, with a hand at her lower back, and called back, wryly, "She's in a gay _bar_—so yeah. Not that it even _matters_ to a single-minded narcissist like you."

Brittany nuzzled her nose onto a rounded, brown cheek. She raised her willowy arms up to the ceiling—her fingertips humming with love and energy; she flexed them tight. "Things are about to go down!" she giggled, turning to whisper at Rachel, "And if you're lucky, you'll be one of them."

At Brittany's wink, Rachel smirked widely (with thick, butterscotch lips). She turned her shining gaze back to the bar.

. . .

The crowd shifted around her—giving her space and attention. The girl did not.

The bartender was nondescript and intuitive—she seemed to sense Rachel's intentions, and didn't approach her for an order.

Rachel glanced at the girl, often and obliquely. The girl appeared oblivious, eyes set devotedly on the pages. The romance was quickly dissipating from the scene; waning in the long, dry silence between them.

Rachel licked her lips.

"You don't belong here, you know," she told her, softly, finally, "In some dive bar, reading a _book_. You're too pretty. Much too pretty. I think—I think my penthouse apartment would be a _much _more fitting backdrop for a girl as pretty as you. So what do you say? I parked close and I haven't been drinking."

Tiresomely cold hazel eyes lifted from beneath long lashes to stare at her minutely, before turning soberly back towards her literature.

Rachel watched her (intently) for whole seconds, before repeating casually, "What do you say?"

The girl licked her fingertip, and flipped the page, "No, thank you."

Rachel believed that meant nothing definite. In fact, there was a tremulous exhilaration in the chase. It had gotten far too easy in recent years. This girl—apparently—had no _idea _who she was talking to.

"Then let me get you a drink. Please? Just a drink."

The girl glanced up, partly surprised, as if she had only just become aware that Rachel's presence was still _there, _"No. Thank you."

Rachel's smirk grew faint—until she was suddenly pouting, "You won't take a free drink?"

"Accepting a drink at a bar from a stranger is never as simple as _accepting a drink—_the way it's simple and just a sweet gesture whenever a _friend_ gifts you something," the girl spoke, sure and soft, as if she were considering everything she said at great length before saying it (it was wonderfully rare, when one lived in a world where most people spoke strictly—directly—out of their asses), "There's always the implication—and at the end, you're accepting that too—the implication that you're free to engage me, and I owe you my attention, and even more than _that_ depending on how much stake you put into the cost of a drink."

"_Must _you overthink it? It's only a drink," Rachel complained, tapping her heel against the leg of the girl's stool agitatedly, "How about a trade? A fair one. A drink for your name."

The thousands of infinitesimal sounds in the bar (the pouring of drinks, the happy chatter) coalesced into a single, dull hum as hazel penetrated chestnut, fully. For whole seconds the world stood still for Rachel, and then the girl's lips quirked up slightly. She turned to the bartender (standing off-center, hands clinched over a clean rag, and pretending not to've been listening).

"I'll have your most expensive drink—to be paid for by the tiny, loud brunette to my direct right. Thank you." She turned to Rachel, "Whenever I go to a bar I always ask for the biggest, cheapest thing they've got, which is usually a mug of some godawful domestic beer. I've always been curious as to whether there's that much of a difference between _that _and what people like you generally drink."

"Absolutely there is."

Intelligent green eyes grew wide, "There is?"

Rachel giggled; her nose wrinkled.

The girl caught on then, to the clever nuances of Rachel's smirk, and blushed noticeably (very prettily beneath the low bar lights).

"No, no," Rachel told her, "I wouldn't have the slightest clue. I've never had beer, really."

With near heart-breaking poignancy (careful and slow), the girl slid her mug towards Rachel's direction. Her large, pale hand seemed cooler than the drink. Rachel wished she could press its digits to her mouth—she took the mug by its handle; putting the brim to her lips. Foam and amber filled her mouth.

"Ugh, that's terrible."

The girl grinned magnificently. Rachel thought the sour bite of the beer turned smoother then, upon sight of it.

The sudden reappearance of the bartender went unrecognized—some tumbleweed off in the horizon, floating through the scenery. The girl watched the frothy red drink placed in front of her, wryly. She reached for it, and took a curious sip from a little black straw.

"Hmmm—tastes like berries."

Brown eyes lit up.

"Name!" Rachel reminded her, albeit abruptly, "Yours, your name. Our deal."

The girl balanced her chin on her knuckles—her elbow on the bar—and looked at Rachel obliquely, eyes twinkling almost, "Quinn."

Rachel held her breath for a beat, then, "That's all I get?"

Quinn nodded tenderly, "That's all you get."

"But_ Quinnnnn_," Rachel pouted, "_Whyyyyy_?"

Quinn laughed—licked her lips and bit them, "One of us should leave."

Rachel shook her head, and nestled closer, mouth nearly brushing Quinn's jaw, "If you leave I'll be despondent _all _night."

Quinn pulled back (whole, unbearable inches), swallowing noticeably, "Why should I care how you feel? You're some girl I just met who, immediately upon meeting me, was trying to pressure me into anonymous sex. And I wouldn't even ever see you again, would I?"

Quinn's eyes seemed impassive. Rachel steeled herself—pokerface in place.

"Do you even _want _to see me again?"

"_No._"

"Then who cares?"

Quinn sighed, tiredly.

"_I _care. I don't do one-night stands, without exception."

Rachel smirked—ambiguous, and coy, "We don't have to…I _do_, I do have a cool apartment you know? It's big and lonely. Just distract me for tonight, that's all. We can—watch _movies_, or talk about…books, or, or whatever you _want _to do. And you don't have to worry about me. What do you have to worry about? I mean, you're so much bigger. If I get too frisky, I give you full permission to get rough with me."

Hazel eyes turned to listless amber slits, "You're…you're so see thru. Do you think I'm an idiot? Or that I'm so secretly desperate that I'd _let _myself fall for something that trite and superficial?— because you're just _that _charming, right? And you are, yeah, you're charming. And at some point that would've had my walls up immediately—but lucky for you, you're so _shallowly _charming and _so_ see-thru there's no chance you'd actually trick me into sex. And lucky for you, I'm pretty sure slapping you in the face would be a hate crime against hobbits. So I'm just going to sit here and pretend to read while _you_ huff and stomp your foot and _walk away_."

Her high, Grace Kelly-brows were quirked sardonically. Their prettiness tempered the heat beneath Rachel's cheeks—somewhat.

She sat for minutes, watching Quinn fake ennui brilliantly—languorous licks of her lips, and little yawns.

Words had never failed her before that single, silent moment. It wasn't momentous or anything—the air was thin, the bar lights swooned (ugly, turning ruddier with every blink), she felt cold—she was the frost, outside, latched to the window.

She huffed—scoffed, and rolled big eyes.

She stomped her foot for emphasis, and laid a little brown hand upon her hip.

She walked away.

. . .

. . .

Feeling very much sixteen, she drank saccharine daiquiris and emoted (across from San and Brit, by the window).

"I can't believe she said _no_—I'm Rachel _Barbra_ Berry! Maybe floozies don't recognize me from my work on Broadway, but _damn it_ that's why I do TV! It's the _only _reason I do TV, because frankly I find the medium to be _tired_ and artless."

Santana glanced at Brittany's profile—the girl was distracted, swirling an olive across her martini glass. She decided then, to yield to every wicked impulse when it came to those sad doe eyes in front of her.

"Calm down, baby-tits—so the girl showed a modicum of taste."

Rachel rubbed at her eyes, as if to wake herself. The whole world was this bar—magick lanterns and the blonde haired girl.

She hadn't felt this petulant and temperamental since high school. Dark, moody eyes fixed on Santana's.

"It's simply inexplicable—no matter _how _I think about it. She had the once in a lifetime opportunity to fuck a thrice-tony-nominated, twice-tony- awarded actress—and _by the way, _that first time I was _robbed. _But whatever! That's—_her _choice."

Across her, Santana snorted. Her grin was wry, and callous; poised to speak.

"Don't you—_dare, _Santana," her full mouth was pulled into a perceptible pout; nearly sensual, "My distress should be palpable, so I expect only sympathy."

"From _me_?"

Rachel regarded the bar—indignant, dark-eyed, scowl enforced.

But then again: didn't fortune always favor the brave?

"This…isn't…the end of this."

Santana eyed her languidly, kittenish and bored already, "Why _not_?"

Rachel's head shook; incredulous. She was reasonable. She was diplomatic. She was right.

"Because there's just no way I'm going home alone tonight. Do you ever see a star alone in the sky? _No_. Not for very long, anyway. Fuck that. Fuck it. I'm fucking her."

Santana's brow quirked, "Whatever happened to your thrice-tony-nominated pussy being a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity?"

Almost absentmindedly, Rachel mumbled a 'fuck you' before getting up off her seat; small hands knotted at the hem of her dress.

. . .

. . .

The girl—Quinn—could not confine her impish smirk; she felt Rachel at her back.

"Do you _know _who I am?"

Quinn beamed at her; amused by all accounts. Devout, golden-halo eyes watched her openly (up and down, for several, slow go-arounds).

"You're the girl who cries when she sings."

Quinn watched Rachel's startled mouth fall, for a small, satisfying moment. In a flash, she caught herself.

"Yes, that's—_exactly_! _That_ is who I am. I am _not_ the girl in high school who gets ignored by pretty cheerleaders anymore. I am a _tony-awarded-actress_! And in this scenario, any sane person would think you're an _idiot _for not engaging in weird, drunken back-alley sex with me right now."

Quinn winced, catching eyes with interested patrons, "You're also _very _loud."

With a pronounced, but woefully unassertive pout, Rachel sighed at her, "Just fuck me."

A brow quirked, almost in sympathy, "Was that your best second try?"

Rachel nodded her head; petulant.

"Go back to your friends," Quinn told her softly.

. . .

Laughter floated to her from across the short length of the table.

"Look at Berry's ego—as it _immerses _itself in newfound humility. Such a _beautiful_ process."

"Like watching a Phoenix die."

She was back with her friends.

Sulking; dreaming up red hot baths with lily-scented bubbles, and a book of poems written by Plath.

"This still isn't the end of this," she told them, "Not by a long-shot."

Santana rolled her eyes above the rim of her jack and coke, "You're lucky I'm drunk and my senses are too dull to give a fuck that you're an idiot."

. . .


	2. What does and doesn't constitute dating

Chapter 2: What does and doesn't constitute dating.

. . .

Rachel woke with a headache; blinking at the brightness that filled her bedroom.

She remembered the girl—her eyes—very vividly.

She was sure she wasn't wrong (now, perhaps, more so than before)—she wanted that stranger.

Images of the night before tore through her thoughts (as she ran a hand across her hair) clearest in her memory was the last time she'd glimpsed her: in the parking lot, passing through Rachel's periphery, pulling her coat's collar up against the cold. Her hands were paler in the moonlight; her disposition even more impenetrable.

Stones sunk in Rachel's stomach; causing sickening ripples.

Santana giggled beside her, "all hail cabs!" She and Brittany bowed, holding hands, and faking British accents. Rachel felt gruesomely lonely. She burrowed her hands in her dress pockets and watched the pavement blur beneath her boots.

. . .

. . .

Rachel loved the sound of coffee brewing.

Santana woke to it (miraculously, from she and Brittany's apartment, a floor below—Rachel surmised Santana had synchronized her alarm, but liked the mystery). And Brittany didn't like to sleep alone.

They conferred in Rachel's kitchen most mornings—and now, years after the glamour and luster, it was the only tradition that remained untouched; by chance, at first, but now it was almost desperately enforced.

Devotedly, at 7:30 every morning.

. . .

The coffee pooled, black, into their ceramic mugs. Its heady scent stroked open their eyelids.

. . .

"Romance is persistent. Romance is _inexhaustible_—it's brave, and it's fearless, and yes, it's crazy at times, but it's _worth_ it."

Santana stared down the mottled shaft of a banana, trapped in Rachel's small, gesticulating fist. Her voice was most vibrant in the mornings—without regard to Santana's sensibilities.

"All I gathered there was _crazy_."

Brittany watched them with casual interest, pouring Trix into a salad bowl.

"Oh, shut up," Rachel waved a hand at her, dismissively.

"Hey! I can't help it, okay—you're _stalking _this poor girl, and the hot TV cop in me is _furious _about it," Santana smirked, watching with cynical satisfaction as Rachel's cheeks tinted.

"_Not _stalking," it was ground out through a locked jaw and wide eyes, "I'm optimistically expecting to see her somewhere I've seen her before. _How _is that stalking?"

Santana stared, silent, for whole seconds—quirked brow and derisive coffee-black eyes, "Are you fucking serious right now?"

Rachel scoffed, offended, "You and your conventionalized ideals of what does and doesn't constitute dating can go have breakfast in your own apartment, you know."

"_Dating_!" Santana cried out in horror (practically), dissolving into little, erratic giggles, "In no way, shape, or form, is getting rejected _twice _in the same night by the same girl considered _dating, _Rachel."

With a prosy shake of her head (eyes closed and a calm rosy smile), Rachel told her, "Despite her vehement refusals…there was something in her demeanor that just screamed _try harder, win me over._"

"Those would be your own projections, reflected back at you in all their delusional splendor."

Rachel turned her eyes (innocent, excited) to Brittany, "Brit, help me here please."

"She can't help you," Santana snorted, "She's an incredibly hot dancer, not an incredibly hot therapist."

Brittany turned her slender neck up to look at them—eyes flitting upwards from the swirl of strawberry pink almond milk and fluorescent cereal pieces. She sighed at them, "_Rachel_, this is my thirty-sixth vow of silence in a decade—not that you've noticed with all your self-centered rambling and everything. It's worth it—I'm more enlightened than both of you," she clucked her tongue, "But now I have to start over. And just because I had to confirm that you're delusional."

Santana's eyes squinted—happy wrinkles collecting at their edges, "Dry-humor Brittany is my favorite."

Rachel watched them. Happiness lay softly around them; almost visible, nearly a live presence in whatever room they occupied, following them, its hands clutched at their waists. Some days she wondered how she could stand to be around them—as alone as she was.

"All right—back to the Rachel Berry Show," Santana turned to her, "Even though I think this is completely ridiculous, it's still a step up from that tree you used to date in high school—so I'm vaguely supporting this new outrageous endeavor. _Vaguely_."

Brittany's brows furrowed, confused, "You and Finn used to date? Weird—I always thought you were one of the Keebler elves that lived inside him."

Santana's chest shook with giggles, "Oh my god! If I hadn't already put a ring on it… _Jesus, _babe, I've—frankly, I've never been this turned on."

Rachel sighed, watching the smoke over the rim of her coffee swirl away, "I hate you both."

"Yeah, yeah," Santana drawled, "We'll meet you tonight at ol' Myra's—which is consequently the ugliest name you could ever give a dyke bar. For the record."

. . .

. . .

Rachel descended the stairs out of the studio, intently. The sky outside was dusky—tinted red and emerald-grey. Hours of soul-crushing ballads passed by, with verses staggering awkwardly across the page. Most days were spent crossing words out, saying 'cut it,' sighing at producers.

It was only when she thought of the blonde-haired girl that it felt like Christmas.

Snow fell on her hair; misty and tragic New York snow. She'd left her cap in the studio, but it wasn't worth going back for. She wanted to be far away from the booth, the microphone—the daunting grey machinery she didn't comprehend.

Her phone buzzed with a message: _We're starting without you, come-lately._

She smirked fondly, typing back: _order me a double daiquiri, Satan-oops-auto-correct-i-guess-my-phone-knows-what-you-turn-into-when-you-step-into-telephone-booths._

A beat, then, _come-backs are generally quick_, _Rach_.

She sighed—it was still a nice surprise when Santana referred to her that way.

The streetlights were coming on; consecutively, unsteadily (blinking as they woke). Rachel felt butterflies swirling in her stomach, their fairy-wings tickling her ribs. It was a foreign feeling. She hadn't felt this way since her chorus-girl days.

She hailed a cab, casually; little golden hand gleaming in the grey, winter dusk. Her own car had most likely been towed last night—she'd left it parked in some non-descript spot for days now.

It was the least of her worries—with her stomach swirling the way it was.

A taxi stopped for her, and she piled in; lonely. It was terribly lonely riding a cab by yourself.

. . .

She exited to the sight of bright moonlight. The street glowed under it; a pretty pallor that reminded her of Quinn beneath the bar-lights.

She passed the tall buildings, glanced up at their dark windows—New York made her feel big and small; a girl and a woman all at once. It was daunting. She was grateful when she reached the bar.

. . .

. . .

The girl in the green pea coat with the just-above-shoulder-length blonde hair failed to appear (again and again). Rachel counted every minute of her absence. She counted to a hundred and two before ordering a drink.

"If I don't get drunk then tonight will _truly _be a waste, won't it?"

"Is it really all that bad?" Santana asked her.

Rachel pouted. She was aware of looking petulant and girlish.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted this girl," she confided softly.

"_Yes_ I do," Santana deadpanned, brows furrowed, "It was since last night."

"Exactly. I haven't wanted anything for that long since I won those two tonies."

Santana dragged a hand down her cheek, scowling, "You're ridiculous. You give me headaches."

"Jack and coke on me," Rachel told her, drolly.

Santana's eyes turned soft and sensitive.

"But you're also one of my dearest friends and I love you."

. . .

She walked up to the bar with languid awareness; ignoring the interested glances, hands in her dress pockets (a tartan dress tonight—very, very high-school).

The bartender watched her with far too much clarity, "Hello again Miss Berry."

She looked up from the sight of some girl's glowing cigarette—like a lightning bug floating beside her, "A double daiquiri and a jack and coke."

"Sure," the bartender nodded a few times, sharply, "And—y'know—on the house. Or well, maybe for an autograph? I'm a fan of yours."

The bartender's pale, freckled hand slid a napkin and a pen nervously in her direction. Rachel noted the subtle twitch of her ring finger as she pulled away.

She hummed and signed some non-committal cliché with her name attached; messy curves punctuated with a star, "May I ask you something—would you mind?"

She watched the speckled dust beneath her feet, but felt—distinctly—the wideness of the bartender's stare.

"Sure—of course! Anything at all."

"The girl…" she started, carefully, "In the green pea coat, with the just-above-shoulder-length-blonde-hair…does she come here regularly, or was it just the once?"

The bartender "oh-ed" softly and licked her lips, "She's here Thursday nights. Been coming for two, three months now."

Rachel considered this, distractedly, "Thursdays…"

The bartender eyed her queerly; studying her cautiously—as if she were unadjusted, or likely to suddenly explode.

"Is something the matter?" Rachel asked her.

"Well…" she fiddled with the blender, working on Rachel's daiquiri, "It's not every day award-winning actresses stalk mild-mannered book-store clerks."

Rachel noted the wealth of rum being poured into the blender, appreciatively, "She, she works at a book-store?"

"I've said too much."

She fought against her tendency to always take things seriously, with a bite of her bottom lip, "I'm not stalking her you know…I'm—merely seeking her out in order to get to know her better, based on the signals she's subconsciously been sending me."

The bartender "hmm-ed" and slid the frothy red drink—strawberry perched prettily on the rim of the glass—in front of Rachel.

"Thank you," Rachel told her. She was horribly conscious of the bartender's eyes on her, _still_, but did not mention it. The jack and coke slid into her eyeline; she picked it up and turned to go.

"Hey, um—wait."

She turned; fixing the bartender with her full, brown-eyed attention.

"Um," the bartender stuttered, shocked silent for moments, "The—the girl in the green pea coat, with the just-above-shoulder-length-blonde-hair, she left this last night."

She placed a notebook carefully on the counter-top—leather-bound, with frayed edges.

"I figure since you're seeking her out and everything, maybe you should have it. And that way, it'll be sure to get back to her safely. And—you know—you'll have a better basis than the signals you think she's been sending you to…_seek her out_."

Rachel nodded slowly; trying conscientiously not to stare in wonder at it—slight, worn, and neat.

"I whole-heartedly accept the responsibility."

The bartender scrutinized her tiredly, "You're many degrees weirder than I thought you'd be."

. . .

She advanced back to their table, the notebook clutched to her chest via the crook of her elbow and both drinks in her hands.

"Who let you hold three things?" Santana asked, with a humorous smirk.

She sat—laying the drinks out on the table, still clutching the book to her chest. She sighed eagerly.

Santana eyed her. "Whaddaya got there? A notebook's worth of phone numbers, I hope."

Rachel closed her eyes and shook her head.

"It's hers."

The minutes passed while Santana and Brittany watched her with wide eyes.

"It never ceases to amaze me how quickly you jump from 'hello' to 'look at these neat cat calendars I made out of our faces'—honestly, it never does."

Brittany shook her head, "You stole her diary? That's low—Lord Tubbington did the same thing to me and I haven't even forgiven him posthumously."

She set it down, diligently, "The bartender gave it to me. She left it last night. And now I know she comes on Thursdays. And I know she works at a bookstore. And I know she writes in journals in addition to reading voluminously in darkly-lit bars which can't be good for her eyesight so for all intents and purposes she might also wear corrective lenses."

The wild bar lights made Santana's skin glow practically ruddy, "This isn't generally the sort of information one needs to know when attempting to hit it and quit it. You don't even need to know this bitch's _name, _honestly. Medical records would help though."

Rachel stroked the leather; trailed her index finger to the frayed edge of the cover. She flipped to the last page.

There was a hasty sketch of her face on the page (she recognized her eyes immediately), punctuated by a few broken verses that might loosely form a poem.

_Our ghosts may have kissed…I think in a past life, they did_.

"Hey!" Santana grasped it, closing it promptly, "Don't be a creep."

Rachel blushed, "It was only a sentence…"

The significance of the words filtered slowly into her consciousness (she was in part distracted by Santana patting an index finger to her nose).

"Oh, dark, short, and reckless," Santana told her, still patting her nose, "You're lucky I take the time to occasionally guide this mess you've made in the right direction."

"To what mess are you referring?"

"Your life," she answered simply, "Because frankly, you absolutely suck at this ladies lady business. You're not smooth. You have no game. And you're very hard to watch."

Brittany nodded, "I concur. You're like the sun if the sun sucked at seducing things."


	3. Thursday, I'm in love

Chapter 3: Thursday, I'm in love.

. . .

_I've dreamt up your room's motifs—pink and cream—_

_Clean linen sheets, crisp with the scent of your skin and lavender._

_And I've had to promise my heart never to let myself know you. _

She fell asleep, letting herself read a final verse before she closed her eyes. If she could write like Quinn, she'd spend far fewer nights entangled around a microphone like an elfin waif around a bough—brooding in the booth; her full mouth uninspired, petulant, and unsatisfied.

From the start she should've known Quinn was a poet—her languid beauty, her penetrating green eyes; glowing beneath the dim lights, her large, pallid hands tenderly cupped around her book. It was obvious.

She was immediately attractive—but even more so in quiet retrospect, days after having seen her for the first time. Beauty that reverberates is rare. Quinn's looks caused ripples inside her—time didn't wane their effect.

She slept that night with Quinn's notebook clutched to her breast like a teddy bear. It smelled of ink and leather.

So far inside it she had found an eyelash, her own face sketched more beautifully than it'd ever been captured by a camera, three poems, and a full name—

_This journal belongs to: _Lucy Quinn Fabray.

. . .

_Lucy Quinn Fabray_—she loved all her names.

. . .

She wondered if she'd taken too much without asking again, but her sleep was peaceful, and her conscience startlingly still.

. . .

You never notice the unbearable minutiae of your days the way you do when you're waiting to meet a pretty girl somewhere.

_Thursday, I don't care about you, it's—_

Yes, I do.

. . .

"I never had a working definition for the word 'elegant'…" she said on Wednesday.

Santana yawned, "Right. Until you met a girl who reads and writes in bars. Then—all of a _sudden_—the word _elegant _just made a ton of sense."

Rachel nodded her head.

. . .

Thursday morning, she woke to fresh snow outside her window. Frost in spider-web patterns was latched to the glass, and if she slit her eyes it appeared to be some far off, crystalline kingdom. Where a princess lived, waiting to be rescued.

She vaguely registered the sounds of Brittany and Santana moving liberally about her kitchen—the sound of laughter and a squeal. She had the sudden, paranoid suspicion that they felt sorry for her—living all alone in too large a space. And that they came over every morning out of pity, and not because she made an exceptional cup of coffee.

She closed her eyes tight, in a flash, as if she could physically turn off her stream of consciousness; the never-ending inner monologue. It was so rarely silent in her head.

. . .

Santana never knocked on a single one of her doors. She was a sudden weight in her bed, tugging on her night-dress, "Wake up already, would you. Isn't it your big day?"

She snuggled up to Rachel, grabbing her by the waist.

"I guess…"

Rachel felt she was on a sullen plane—dropped off from where she'd been just yesterday.

Her shoulders stooped beneath Santana's cheeks. She heard herself say, mechanically, "I feel like a loser. I feel like not much has really changed since high school."

Santana bit her shoulder lightly, "Well, stop."

"_No_," she spoke intently, "This is stupid. I was dumb thinking that she'd even _care_ that I can sing. Or that I've won a few tonies. Or that I can carry a conversation surpassingly well because I'm smart and subtly witty. None of that matters. It didn't matter before and it doesn't matter _now_. Because…because I'm still not one of the pretty girls. And nothing's going to change _that_."

Santana nuzzled the crown of her head, lazily, "Maxim's hot 100 begs to differ. And…so do I."

She turned, opening wide her eyes and staring up into Santana's, "_You _do?"

Slowly, with an inevitable sense of resignation, Santana nodded, "I do. And did, even back in high school. I figured if I could shut you up long enough…you wouldn't be too bad a lay. Of course, I could never shut you up long enough. And then Brittany dumped Artie and it was too late anyway. It would've been fun though… lording it over Finn Hudson that I got to you first. I would've climbed a ladder and rubbed it right in his giant, pasty face."

Rachel's heart leapt. She smiled, "you _liked_ me," she whispered wonderingly.

"Oh! Like _you _don't wants a piece!" She held Rachel by the waist with a rigid forearm; tickling her ribs, "You wants a piece! You wants a piece! You wants a piece!"

Rachel wriggled, "Stop _saying _that!"

"But you _do _wants a piece!"

"_Regardless_! Hahahaha!"

Santana's lips slid against the shell of her ear, she sung into it, in her bluesy lower register, "You can't deny me—why would you want to? You need me."

Rachel squealed, smacking Santana's hands away, "I'm getting up, I'm getting up, I'm getting up!"

. . .

The day passed hazily—she took a long bath, lounged in her robe, dried and straightened her hair, perfected her make-up—eyes, lips, powder, rouge.

"Well, aren't _you _a little knock-out tonight."

She smirked up at Santana, who was leant against the frame of her bedroom door, "Just try and control yourself, you animal."

"No chance."

"Are you coming along tonight?"

"No chance. I can _barely _stand the working-class dyke stench in that place. Besides—the allure of being able to study the mating habits of Lilith Fair Lesbians without the nuisance of actually having to _go_ to one of those fucking things has worn off. I think Brit and I are just gonna fuck on your furniture a little tonight. Nice, quiet evening at home."

"Sounds lovely," she smiled, "You rich, bougie snobs have fun."

Santana quirked a brow, "How much are you making a year again?—I lost count somewhere around the seventh zero."

"It's not polite to mention finances in personal conversations, you know."

"Hmm," Santana sucked her lip, "Sounds like something a rich, bougie snob would say."

. . .

. . .

She sat with a vodka tonic, and waited. Sarah McLachlan crooned from a jukebox. She tried not to think of Lilith Fair. Or Lilith of the bible. Or any list of moral inquiries worth reflection. She swayed to the lilting melodies and drank vodka tonics—until a pale shadow caught her eye, glowing beneath the bar lights.

The realization hit her suddenly—she didn't care who this girl was.

_If she's wild, I want to reform her. If she's pure, I want to sully her. If she's patient, I want to drive her insane. If she's a good girl, I want to send her home rotten and mean. If she's green, I want to show her everything._

_And if she's bad—_

But either way, really.

She took a sip—particularly bitter.

She watched as solemn hazel eyes raked across the length of the bar. They paused at the shadowy stools by the counter—where Rachel had found her the first time. It seemed to be customary.

Just as she sat, Rachel made her move.

"You owe me."

"For what?"

"The fevers you've caused me."

Emerald flecks lit up, like Christmas lights, "Let's call it strike three, shall we?"

"I'd leave, you know," she told her, "If I weren't so positive you'd miss me."

Quinn's eyes flickered; in a blink they turned blasé—pastel green—like grass in the white light of summer, "I'm going to proceed to ignore you, since engaging you—regardless of how acerbic my wit might be—seems only to further drive your delusionary beliefs about the nature of our short, insignificant relationship."

Rachel nodded vaguely, "Sure—right, right."

Quinn sighed, lips puckering prettily.

"I actually… have something you want tonight, though," Rachel watched those gold-rimmed eyes dip, landing on the swell of her breasts—tracing the curves distractedly. Her cheeks flushed, "I didn't mean _that_. Although…you're free to take whatever you want to from me."

Quinn's jaw hardened, beneath her blush, "I don't have a clue what you're referring to."

"I'm _sure _you don't," she grinned, her smile good-humored and bright. She dipped a hand into her small, pink purse; pushing items aside in search of something specific.

Quinn recognized the very edge of her journal—as it emerged from Rachel's bag, attached to her little, reverent hand.

She grew ever more stoic and withdrawn—Rachel watched it happen; sudden and forceful, like waves lapping at the shore.

Her eyes slit, "Did you read it?"

Rachel paused to cough and look momentarily away from piercing hazel, "No."

"Yeah, I buy _that_," Quinn scoffed, "Just give it back."

A sudden inrush of thoughts (justifications, vindications, big outright lies) rushed to her head. She bit her lip to hold them, and took a breath. "I only read a _few _lines," she said, handing it over; brown eyes clearly distraught, "It's…it's just that you're so mysterious. I thought it made sense to read a _bit_; to make up for how closed off you are."

Rachel watched the pale column of her throat—swallowing visibly, in quick succession.

"No—that's not it. You're just too impatient to get to know me naturally, because all you want from me is a single night of—and the fact that I rejected you is the only thing making you this curious. Because what _possible _reason could I have for not wanting to fuck _you_? I mean, you're so _great _and everything."

Rachel nodded, seriously, "I am. I _am_. I'm _smart_—I went to a reputable liberal arts school in New York where I did _very _well; I exceeded in everything I tried. And I've learned to _listen _in conversations and not just pause for breath. And I'm _witty_—I can be very witty. And I'm _clever _too, and I'm not boring, and my SAT scores were _exceptional, _and my IQ is _extraordinary_. And I'm _successful_, and I had to _work _to get here, and I'm happy and _proud _of myself and I won't ever apologize for that. And…and I'm _hot, _okay? And maybe you don't _see _that because I'm not some gawky blonde girl of conventional _prettiness_ who went to Wesleyan and who you can introduce to all your father's _yacht club_ friends and they'll vaguely recognize her last name. But I'm not going to let that make me feel less beautiful tonight—because Santana Lopez, _of the Cheerios, _wanted to fuck me in high school," she gathered her purse, pulling it close to the crook of her shoulder, "And I'm leaving now, because I finally understand that—you're just not attracted to me. I'm just not your type. And that doesn't make you mysterious—it just makes you an idiot. So, goodbye."

Rachel saw the quick quirk of a brow before she turned around. But she did not see the hand that flew to grip the crook of her elbow. Quinn twirled her back around, with all the desperate poignancy of a dance, and pulled her close.

"You're _impossible_," she whispered it right onto her temple, "And every thought you've had about me since you met me is _completely_ wrong. Allow me to elucidate—I don't come here to get hit on by little megalomaniacs. I've…" she lowered her tone by several decibels, "I've come out of the closet very, very recently. And I don't really know any—y'know—_gays_ or anything. You just want to fuck me. And I just need a friend I can _be _myself around. So…I don't think that's going to work out at all. Because I'm not ready for any of those things that seem to always be on your mind. I've never…I—I know I'm attracted to women. Exclusively. I understand that. And I've even started to accept it. But I've never crossed the line to…to _actually—_you know? I'm a Christian. And that may sound stupid to you, but it's important to me. I'm not ready to even think about…crossing that line. And to you, because you're this liberal, Broadway girl—it must seem so pitiable. But I don't want that from you either. I don't want you to go home and think about the sad, confused Christian girl. So I guess I don't know what I want from you at _all_, since I'm not sure you'd be a very good friend or anything. Or that you'd even _want _to be," she laughed a little, at herself, "You probably wouldn't."

Rachel was overcome. Her mouth dropped half-open (though her breath had stopped coming seconds ago).

"So," she started, dryly, and licked her lips (eyes focused intensely on Quinn's), "So—you _do _find me attractive?"

Quinn exhaled a tired, shaky little laugh; relieved not to have to dwell on the outpour, "_Yes_—you, you little fucking _idiot_."

Rachel beamed at her, eyes bright.

"That's not what friends call their friends, Quinn."

. . .

Hours passed, talking closely while the jukebox set the mood.

. . .

Quinn walked her out; offering to drive Rachel's car to her apartment then cab back home since she was so perfectly sober.

"_Where _did you park again?"

"It was maybe a week ago."

"_Where_ not _when—_that's the _when_."

"I'm hinting at the fact that I might not know with one-hundred percent absolute certainty."

"_What_?"

"I have _theories_!" Her lashes fluttered up at Quinn, "But no facts."

The moon shone down at them, and it was as if it did so just to make Quinn's eyes that particular shade of gold. Rachel nearly tripped.

Quinn threw an arm over her shoulders (surely to steady her) and she caught her hand—pale and cool as snow—in both of hers; she brought the back of it to her lips, to kiss.

"Is that what friends do?"

She flicked her tongue between the knolls of Quinn's knuckles, and smirked, "Nope."

Quinn sighed—breath visible; a jet of white smoke—and then looked away, "You're just trying to distract me from the fact that we've been walking for _fifteen_—"

"_La la la la la la la_!" She hid her face in Quinn's palm.

"Fifteen _minutes_!" She grunted softly, "You're so _infuriating_."

"You like me! So don't be _coy_," Rachel warned, "or I'll be forced to sing to you."

"Do what you _want_—what am I saying?" She scoffed, "You'd do it anyway."

Rachel bit her lip, with a smile.

"_The more you ignore me, the closer I get—you're wasting your time."_

"Okay, fitting," Quinn giggled, joining, "_I will be—in the bar, with my head on the bar_."

"_I am now a central part of your mind's landscape, whether you care—or do not. I've made up your mind."_

. . .

. . .

Snow fell, exploding softly on the pavement. They were standing in the shadow of Rachel's apartment building, beneath the light of the windows.

"The worst part about winter is that you can't see any stars in the sky."

She tugged Quinn's collar down, until their noses brushed, "Why are you looking up there for stars when you've got _me _right here?"

Up on her tip-toes, she kissed the corner of Quinn's lips (quick—_hardly_).

"And you're sure you don't want to take my car? I don't use it."

"Cab's coming," Quinn spoke, distractedly; eyes hazy. "I…" she craned her neck, eyes bright in the dark, "I can see the headlights."

Rachel watched the tendons of her neck flex, "Hmm. Excellent."

Clutching her canvas bag, Quinn turned to her for a last time, smiling. The sky was split between grey and white—but Quinn's eyes were pure gold, "So you'll call?"

. . .

. . .

a/n: "Friday, I'm in Love" is a Cure song. And "The More You Ignore Me, The Closer I Get" is a Morrissey song.


	4. Singing Sinatra in the cold

Chapter 4: Singing Sinatra in the cold.

. . .

. . .

_You make me feel so young—_

_You make me feel so spring has sprung,_

_And every time I see you grin I'm _such_ a happy in-di-vi-du-al._

The song had Quinn in a mood. She remembered where she'd been when she first heard it—in her father's den; the scent of scotch and peppermint rising from the carpet beneath her stomach and knobby knees.

"Tonight, I'll have a scotch on the rocks—in your brightest glass, please," she told the bartender, who nodded warmly.

She stared at everything, fascinated; with a smile.

_The moment that you speak,_

_I want to go play hide & seek—_

_I want to go and bounce the moon just _like _a toy balloon._

_You and I… _

_Are just like a couple of tots; _

_Running across a meadow—pickin' up lots of forget-me-nots_

"Da-da-da da-da."

She tapped her palms against the counter and thought she saw ghosts dance across the moon outside the window—tricky shapes the frost made.

"You have a lovely voice, ya know," the bartender had a low, husky Brooklyn accent Quinn hadn't noticed until then. It was slight.

"Um," she blushed and became aware of having sang along, "Thanks."

She turned to the window—the snow was falling rather furtively. She was surprised her voice hadn't quavered yet.

The bartender's tone blended with Sinatra's, "You seem happy tonight."

Warm amber on ice slid into her view, atop the counter.

She cleared her throat, eyes flitting up, "You uh—you know the girl who was here two weeks ago; the girl in the polka-dotted dress and red beret?"

The bartender nodded, "That's Rachel Berry. She's famous."

Quinn flushed—a ruddy glow, indistinguishable in the low lights, "I'm meeting her here tonight. She's a friend."

The bartender watched her intently; brown eyes bright, "You _lucky _dog."

Quinn sipped slowly (the only way one could enjoy scotch was after years and years of leisurely soaking your tongue in it). She swallowed, with a slight grimace, "Oh _no_—that's—we're _friends_."

The bartender's smile mirrored the night's mood exactly; wild and content, "If I were you—I would've hit that."

"_What_?"

"If I were you—" she spoke again, calmly, "I would've hit that. Two weeks ago, in fact."

Quinn watched her with wide eyes.

"I mean to each their _own_," the bartender clarified gently, "If she's not what you're looking for, she simply isn't. It's just that if _I'd _had the chance, I would've—I mean—_far _beyond an average rendezvous—I would've done _everything _to that girl."

"_Bartender_!"

"—I would've _destroyed _her. Whoever came after me would've been like—did you give _birth _recently Miss Berry because…"

"Okay, okay!" Quinn shook her head, manically; palms at her ears, "You're _much _different from what your earlier demeanor indicated."

"The woman's to _die _for," the bartender licked her lip thoughtfully, "And fucking her would be the only thing in my life I wouldn't think three times about before doing."

Snowflakes in Quinn's hair started to melt; tickling the skin at the nape of her neck in cool rivulets (she really _should _start wearing caps). She still felt hot—her cheeks burned terribly.

"Wow," the bartender snorted, "I've made you _really _uncomfortable."

. . .

Outside, and maybe two and a half blocks away—

. . .

"She's so self-deprecating, too—she's one of those girls that, when they say something wonderful, they immediately change the subject; write it off, act like they're not poets," Rachel stared up at the sky, in a trance. The stars were veiled by thick, charcoal clouds. The wind whistled sullenly.

"I'm afraid we might be late," Rachel bit her lip worriedly; her gait picking up.

Santana rolled her eyes, "God forbid the girl in the green pea coat with the just-above-shoulder-length blonde hair should wait five minutes. Book store clerks have such busy schedules, after all."

Rachel glared indignantly in her direction, before widening her eyes, "Oh! You should call her _Quinn_ from now on."

"Noted."

"And be nice."

"Hmm."

"And no sarcasm."

"Yes. Fine."

"No sexual references, no scoffing, no eye-rolling," she flicked the list off on her fingertips, "No referencing Brittany as 'that fine piece of ass over there,' and _absolutely _no going Lima Heights all over anybody."

Snow flitted around Santana's head like a halo, "That's a lot to put on my conscience, Rach—and you know my conscience hardly ever even puts up a fight, the little sissy. Now _Snix_—that bitch _throws down._"

Rachel ran a hand up her cheek, "Just don't ruin this for me. Girls with inscrutable hazel eyes and pouty, solemn lips don't just walk into my life every _day, _you know."

"Or _ever_."

"Yeah," Brittany agreed, listlessly slung around Santana—leant against her hip, "Or ever."

. . .

. . .

Quinn sucked ice into her mouth, and nibbled at it curiously.

Rachel walked slower upon sight of her—needing to prolong the image. She noted the way Quinn wrapped melancholia around herself unconsciously—expecting no one to read it on her face.

Looking at her now, it was clear to Rachel it was _that _aspect which had attracted her initially. Not her beauty, but her sadness.

Quinn paused for a moment, and turned. She smiled at her.

. . .

"Hey!"

Rachel offered her arms, and Quinn stumbled into her. Rachel nuzzled the green pea coat's lapel—the scent of amber incense and books made her instantly sleepy. Soft, blonde hair tickled her cheek.

"_Mmn_."

"Okay, okay," Santana waved a hand between them, "I'd like to be introduced so I can start drinking please."

Rachel raked her eyes drolly down Santana's length, "Quinn, these are my friends—Santana Lopez and Brittany Pierce. Please don't judge me by the company I keep, I was young and impressionable when I first met them."

Quinn smiled formally, and extended a hand to Santana, "Right. Brooklyn's meanest, most scantily-clad detective."

Santana snorted and shook Quinn's hand; strong grip in place, "Or at least I play her on TV."

She offered a hand to Brittany and the girl curtsied in response. It was the sort of moment that reverberated in your memory years after the fact—a bell occasionally rung on winter nights that turned your smile wistful. Quinn giggled and disentangled from Rachel (missing the girl's breath on her neck instantly).

"So—drinks."

And so it began.

. . .

. . .

Ghosts came out of the night to swirl about with the snowflakes. Quinn's cheeks were drunken-ruddy—Rachel appreciated the contrast.

"You look fuzzy," her lashes fluttered hazily, "Like an impressionist painting of yourself."

"Because of the snow?" Quinn asked, and her voice was clear and seemed very suddenly young to Rachel.

"Because she's _shitfaced_," Santana spoke, from the crook of Brittany's neck, where she was leant against—they lagged three feet behind them, staggering happily.

"You're so sweet," she slurred it softly onto the line of Quinn's jaw, on her tip toes.

Quinn watched her reverently: the pretty, theatrical quality of her eyes—wide, and expressive. Her mouth. The instant vivacity of her presence in a room; the room lights up, sighs in relief. Because _Rachel's _here. And the night can finally start.

Her heart seized happily, and her voice started up; throaty and honest—

_Come fly with me—let's fly, let's fly away._

_If you can use some exotic booze, there's a bar in far Bombay._

The speckles in Quinn's eyes lit up as she sang. Rachel loved the way she could always see Quinn's eyes in the dark—bright, amber beacons. But it was especially true now, as she sang.

_Come fly with me—let's fly, let's fly away._

_Come fly with me—let's float down to Peru._

_In llama-land there's a one man band and he'll toot his flute for you!_

_Come fly with me—let's take off in the blue._

Quinn's lips were bright crimson as she smirked; bitten by the icy wind.

_Once I get you _up there _where the air is rarified—we'll just glide, starry-eyed._

_Once I get you _up there_, I'll be holding you so near you may hear angels cheer—_

'_Cause we're together._

The curve of her lips turned near-sensual—half smirk, half challenge (a dare for Rachel, to try and not love her _now_).

_Weather-wise, it's such_ _a _lovely_ day—_

_Just say the words and we'll beat the birds down to Acapulco bay;_

_It's _perfect _for a flying honeymoon, they say._

Rachel passed a palm through blonde (worryingly hatless) bangs so she could stare into her bright eyes unobstructed.

A succession of scenes flashed behind her eyes when she closed them—Quinn's lips sliding against hers, rapid corkscrew motions of their hips, heated nights, fights, the steady pressure of hardwood beneath her one bent knee, blonde locks unfurling from a white veil.

She opened them to Quinn's happy smile—real, and happening right now.

_Come fly with me—let's fly, let's fly away_.

Rachel could hear the trumpets; they shook the snow right out of the clouds.

A snowy, nebulous night spent holding a girl's warm hand (letting her twirl you drunkenly); singing Frank Sinatra in the cold—slightly sharp and Rachel didn't even mind—it's all it takes to fall in love.

. . .

Brittany watched them twirl around each other, skeptically—

"It's weird how she keeps dating people with a propensity to break out into song in public."

Santana nodded, forehead sliding along Brittany's shoulder, "I know baby."

"It's just such a rare trait—and she's four out of four so far."

Santana rolled her eyes critically, "Inexplicable nonsense just _follows _Rachel Berry around—I mean _look_ at this chick," she gestured manically towards Quinn, "You shouldn't be able to find chicks that hot in _bars_."

"It's completely inconsistent with reality," Brittany 'hmmed' seriously, "And one day I'm going to bring her up on all this bullshit."

. . .

The moon rose up—bright and pure—from the phantasmal grey of winter clouds, to shine on Quinn like a stage-light.

_Once I get you _up there _where the air is rarified—we'll just glide, starry-eyed._

_Once I get you _up there_, I'll be holding you so near you may hear angels cheer—_

'_Cause we're together._

_Weather-wise, it's such_ _a _lovely_ day—_

_You just say the words and we'll beat the birds down to Acapulco bay;_

_It's _perfect _for a flying honeymoon, they say._

_Come fly with me—let's fly, let's fly,_

_Pack up—let's fly away!_

She buried her face in Quinn's chest, where the scent of amber incense was so nostalgic and sweet she nearly fell asleep immediately.

"I like that song."

"This is the sort of music you sing when you …" Quinn's breath caught; she smirked and let herself get a little lost in wide brown eyes, "Drink scotch."

. . .

. . .

Her eyes fluttered awake on the column of Quinn's neck. She felt the girl's body twist towards her, beneath her forearm.

It was pitch black, but she found Quinn's eyes—bright in the dark.

"I haven't seen fireflies since I was thirteen," Rachel murmured, half awake, "I thought for a very long time that—you know, maybe they were magical and I couldn't see them anymore because I was maturing and my vocabulary was expanding and I was becoming an adult. And I thought it was a fair trade, because I never really liked being a child or being near them or anything—I'd always just wanted to be grown up; so everyone would take my dreams and the things I said seriously. I missed them though—especially when it gets very dark, the way it does in winter. And I've always felt secretly very sad about never getting to see them again. But when I look at your eyes, Quinn, in the dark; I feel the way I did when I chased fireflies."

Quinn stirred and caught her in her arms. She kissed the crown of her head, and Rachel slipped back into sleep very easily.

. . .

Quinn's chest grew very warm in her sleep. And at times her heartbeat sped up so quickly that Rachel worried over her falling from high buildings in her dreams, and gently kissed her awake.

. . .

She loved the scent Quinn left on her pillows, but was beginning to hate mornings passionately.

. . .

"How old are you?"

"I'm twenty-four."

"I'm twenty-five."

"I like older women."

Quinn's laugh was like the summer wind stirring; caressing flower-beds. It suddenly felt like another season altogether.

. . .

She only ever kissed Quinn in her sleep. The one time she took her by surprise, the girl went so extraordinarily stiff in her arms that Rachel spent the night whispering apologies to her lips.

. . .

"The way I believe in God," She felt Quinn's lips move—their motions careful and slight—above her forehead, "It's how I believe in you. And since I've had that thought, I haven't been able to shake it."

. . .

"I've spent my entire life being unsure of every step I've ever taken. And you're so sure of everything you do. I wish I could wake up every morning, and embrace the world the way you do. But sometimes I want to make myself a coffin out of my bedsheets and just—_lie _there."

Rachel stroked her bangs out of her eyes—knowing full well they'd fall back into place not a second after she pulled her hand away (but she kept it there, tangled up in blonde).

. . .

. . .

She stepped into her kitchen one morning, to find Santana lounging on her arm chair; reading the paper—the coffee was brewing.

Dark eyes peered up from the black, Times New Roman swirl of global mania. She regarded Rachel with a serious, quirked brow, "You dress like a toddler. And your girlfriend dresses like she sells bibles door to door. Together, you look like some cult leader's sister wives. But—despite that—it's pretty fucking cool that she's spent the last few nights here. Part of me knew you had it in you—mostly because of my influence. So—I'll let it slide that you haven't made me coffee in forever. Also—you look like a whore this morning, and I _dig that_."

Rachel crossed her arms (rather irreverently) over her chest, "I do _not _look like a whore, this is a seventy dollar camisole!"

"It's like _one degree _outside. _Why _are you walking around in a _camisole _and _boyshorts,_" her eyes widened, "Oh _that's _right—your dirty, _lesbian liaisons_ have been keeping you warm."

Rachel rolled her eyes, mouth pulled up into a smirk that was more than a bit resentful, "I'll have you know, actually, that there have been no…_liaisons_. We're friends—platonically."

"Who sleep together every night—platonically."

Rachel scoffed, "I know you can't _fathom_—"

"Two grown-up women who have sleepovers every night in the name of friendship?" she asked, and her brows quirked like pyramids, "No, you're right—I have a hard time swallowing that one."

"You're just jealous," Rachel smirked at her.

"Oh _really_?"

"Yeah."

"Why's that?"

Rachel walked up; swaying her hips, and leaned gracefully over the arm chair to whisper in her ear, "Because you wants a piece."

Santana grabbed her by the waist, and she shrieked though she knew it'd be coming.

"I'll show _you _a piece!"

"No! No! No, no, no!"

"_Hey_…"

Quinn was at the doorway, wide-eyed and unsure in her white nightgown, "Is everything all right, Rachel?"

"Yes!" she tried to wriggle out of Santana's lap, but a rigid forearm pulled her close, "It's fine. Santana's just a jerk, that's all."

Quinn flushed upon sight of dark eyes—amused and confident, "Where's Brittany?"

Santana giggled, "Oh, I'd actually prefer it if she weren't around to witness my wicked sexy and very illicit affair with this hobbit you refuse to bone."

Rachel's eyes grew wide, "Santana!"

"I don't know why, I mean—she's a hottie for being five foot two," she dipped her index finger into the front of Rachel's camisole, and pulled at it, momentarily exposing a nipple.

"_Santana_!"

Quinn looked away, eyes finding the window—frost, pure and white and cleansing.

"You can practice restraint if you want. But that _urge _you're feeling is healthy, babe."

Quinn's jaw flexed, and her eyes grew dull, "Oh look, another mean Santana joke in which she _really_ means 'come give me that hug I didn't get when I was two;' I'm fucking riveted."

Santana's tongue dragged across her lip like a shark fin, "Hey, Quinn—since you've got a foot in the closet anyway, you mind passing by Narnia and picking up some Turkish Delights from _your mom's_ place?"

"Yeah, I don't think so. Haven't you been reading _People_? They say it's all been going to your _thighs_."

Santana's eyes grew wide, "Is that why Brittany keeps cutting articles out of magazines in the shape of unicorns?"

Rachel sighed, dragging a hand down her cheek, "…maybe."

Santana unfurled the newspaper—revealing a litany of rainbow-shaped gaps.

"She also wants you to stop stressing out about the stock-market—and she doesn't much care for graphs anymore."

"Hmm…I see."

The coffee ceased dripping, and coated the air—the scent made them heady. They all turned to stare at it, halfway in love.

"Well, finally."

"I'm going to be late for work, I think—but if I don't have a cup I'm going to be a bitch all day."

"You're a lot more fun that way."

"Shut up, Santana. Shut up forever."

. . .

a/n: I sing Sinatra when I'm in love.


	5. Love stories are best in the wintertime

Chapter 5: Love stories are best in the winter-time

. . .

Gossamer snowflakes fell—light, and soft—outside her window. Snow glows at night when all the New York lights touch it. It was one of Rachel's favorite things. The thought struck her abruptly, and she tugged at the tip of a blonde lock.

"What are some of your favorite things?"

Quinn stirred in bed, and smirked—lips resting on Rachel's temple, "Pad thai from that place nearby…the one you showed me, and bible verses, and the smell of fresh ink, and um," her voice grew lower, by several decibels, "And you."

Rachel laughed, prettily—she burrowed her blushing cheeks into Quinn's neck.

"And what are your goals?"

"A finished manuscript…and an apartment that features a visible division between the living room and kitchen."

"Mmm…and what did you have for breakfast?"

Quinn sighed a little; a kittenish half-yawn.

"Instant oatmeal and… nutcracker sweet—y'know, that uh, holiday tea that tastes like Christmas-themed sugar cookies."

Rachel kissed her collarbones; exhaling sleepily onto the dip between them, "Tell me a story."

Quinn regarded her with green eyes half-open, "Once…once upon a time, there were two girls. And um, one of them…wanted to sleep all the time. She fell asleep quietly, and easily every…every single night—with a thankful smile. The other girl…she never, ever wanted to sleep. Her life was fun, and filled with love, so she never wanted to waste time in her dreams. One day though…the two girls met. And the first…helped the second calm down at night, and sleep—rest when she wanted to keep going. And the second—she helped the first wake up in the mornings, and taught her how to appreciate the day. Also, she made her really, really great coffee. So…you know, they lived happily ever after."

Rachel snored softly, against Quinn's chest—hand knotted around Quinn's nightgown, anchoring her there.

. . .

. . .

Santana's chin was perched lazily upon her fist. She watched Rachel curiously from the kitchen table. The girl was baking.

"Why does everything you do make such a giant racket?"

Rachel slit her eyes, and mixed the flour (a fair amount of it stuck to her cheeks).

"So it's been a month and a half," Santana stated suggestively, after a beat.

"Yes," it was terse, and cool.

Santana's demeanor shifted (in tandem with the planes of Rachel's back)—Rachel felt the girl grow softer. Whatever she'd been on the verge of saying didn't seem quite so funny anymore.

"How's it going?" Her tone implied that she was _settling _for the statement more than she was speaking it.

Rachel blew her bangs off of her nose (they were terribly over-grown)—she'd managed to make the action seem somehow indignant, "It's going _very _well."

It was too vague a statement for Rachel to let hang in the air for very long. Santana picked at her fingernail and waited out the girl's anxious mouth.

Rachel licked frosting off her thumb. It seemed horribly quiet (and it seemed suddenly pertinent that Santana should know)— "Quinn's just such a lovely girl."

Santana considered the adjective with a pout, then sighed resignedly, "She's a _day-walker, _Rachel."

She opened the oven, going for nonchalance, "Mmn hmm. To be clear—I don't even wantto know."

Santana rubbed at her neck; dragging her palm along it agitatedly, "Just—a question. Does she ever take you out anywhere?—Anywhere where _people _are, not just dive bars and low-lit take-out joints. Do you ever see her before 10 pm? Has she talked to you about her friends…her family…her _pet goldfish_? Have you seen her apartment even once?"

Rachel set her spatula down, gently, taking care not to slam it on the counter just for the satisfaction, "No—all right? What's your point?"

Santana chewed her lip before addressing the issue—and once she spoke, she did so lowly, and carefully, "My point is that you're wasting your time. Quinn isn't ready for anything real. This whole thing is shallow. She's giving you—whatever's _left, _after she's done playing her act. C'mon Rach—she goes to gay bars _by herself. _The only people who do that are scared-shitless gaybies and…and the downright liars. It's so obvious…and the worst part is some piece of you _must _know. And you're ignoring it."

"We're both busy during the day," Rachel managed to articulate it sensibly—with just the slightest bite, "So it makes sense to spend our nights together. I'm too _tired _to go out. I don't _feel _like coming home from the studio and picking out a dress pretty enough to paint the town red in. I don't _feel _like going to parties. I don't particularly feel like meeting Quinn's mother. I don't feel like explaining my fathers to her—or forcing her to eat what they call food while they set up the fifteen hours of home-movie footage that catalogue my pre-pubescent years—my _very naked _pre-pubescent years. I like this. This is easy. And it's _comfortable_. It's—nice. And we're friends. Quinn made it clear. She makes it clear."

"No—she doesn't," She laughed lazily, mirthlessly, "She doesn't make it clear at all. You're not friends. And you're not lovers. Lovers _are _complicated. Lovers aregoing to change you. They're not going to let you stay comfortable. They'll force you to write songs about them, and make you meet their parents, and worry over meeting yours, and—you know what the worst part is, Rachel, about Quinn? She doesn't demand_ anything_ from you—she doesn't want to take you _out_. She's got a girl like you and she'd rather spend the night lying down on perfectly cool, perfectly _tidy _sheets. How in the _fuck_ does she not want to show _you _off? She's a closet-case. I know one when I see one. And worse—she's a daywalker. And you're the poor gay getting eight hours of her day and convincing yourself you won't end up completely heartbroken."

She flicked the oven dial, to high, "Regardless of what you think, Santana, I'm a grown woman. I know what I'm doing, all right?"

Tears warmed the backs of her eyes, but she didn't cry—and her voice didn't crack, or falter when she spoke. She was betrayed only by the tendons in her jaw—but Santana looked away, and ignored it.

She didn't gloat. And she hardly put any effort into the roll of her eyes, or the tone of her voice, "Watching you make dumb mistakes is the reason I haven't yet found it necessary to order cable. I swear to God."

. . .

. . .

"I think love stories are best when they're set in the winter-time."

Quinn giggled. It was a tickle against the shell of Rachel's ear.

"I'll add that to my list of Rachel Berry's preferences. Blondes. Crunchy. Aisle. Almond milk. Winter-time. Got it."

Rachel didn't stir. She was quite limp in Quinn's arms—like a favored rag-doll. Quinn dipped her nose in the nape of her neck, "You…you smell like a high-maintenance girl."

Rachel smiled wistfully—all night she'd felt as if she were _remembering _this moment, instead of living it, "How's that?"

Quinn cleared her throat—her voice always grew lower, the later in the evening that it got (in the mornings it was practically raspy, and Rachel asked her question after question just to hear it), "You smell like product very often—it makes me sort of heady, and sleepy. Your hair's always warm, I suppose, since you iron it constantly. And when it's curly—the one time I came and it was curly—it smelled like coconut oil and was so soft it slid against my cheek like silk…like silk pillows my parents used to sleep on when I was really, really little."

"And when you woke up?" Her tone was quiet, and coy.

"It was _everywhere_," Quinn gasped, and giggled—burrowing into the uppermost knoll of Rachel's spine (where her smile loved to lie against at night), "You were like _Medusa_. Like a beautiful, brown-skinned Medusa and I thought you'd…turned me into stone. But I was—just really tired."

"It was the week-end."

"Mmn hmm," Quinn yawned a little.

"We both had the day off."

Quinn's eyes fluttered, "Yes."

"But you didn't stay. You weren't stone at all. You left after coffee."

Quinn's lips puckered against her spine—goosebumps mottled the expanse of her neck and shoulders.

"The meditative pull of the ripples in your hair, frankly, don't compare to your coffee, Rachel. You turned me into stone and then you turned me into a river."

Rachel spun in her arms, and Quinn realized where the sorrow had been hiding—lying, at home, in the girl's eyes. Deepest of all in her eyes, however, was some quiet desperation. Her lips were not quite closed—she breathed shallowly through an infinitesimal gap in between them. They seemed at once dry and ripe—pale pink. They'd taste of strawberry. Quinn knew because she woke some mornings to the taste still on her own mouth—and she'd know that, sometime in the night, a kiss had been stolen.

Rachel's emotions moved the moods of whole rooms, easily. Tonight, sorrow was spread over her like a shroud.

"What did I do?"

"You're a liar. You were a liar."

Quinn flushed—from her collarbones to her sternum. She swallowed, "What do you mean?"

Tree branch shadows mottled Rachel's jaw—lit her up in Quinn's periphery, "Just _who_ are you out to?"

Quinn's mouth twitched a few times before she spoke, "To me."

Rachel sighed, pinching her index finger and thumb over the bridge of her nose.

Quinn continued—noting her reaction only haphazardly.

"And not at work, because it's unprofessional. And not to Judy—she's my mom—because she's recovering, she's a recovering alcoholic and I'm not sure she could even _handle _it right now. And Russell—that's, that's my father—I don't _speak _to him. So how could I?—we don't even _speak_. And I don't _have _any…close friendships. So…it's not that I'm lying, I—"

"Why don't you ever take me out anywhere?"

Quinn swallowed, "Because cameras follow you…I mean—what would people at my church say, if they saw? _Me…_in some magazine with—you _know_."

Rachel sighed very softly, and it somehow seemed to fill the room. Quinn asked her, after long, silent seconds, "When did this get complicated?"

Rachel thought back. Her mind arrived at an image of Quinn—face flushed from too much Scotch and being hatless in the cold—her hair was wet when Rachel passed a hand through it, and she tugged her arm until the girl agreed to stay the night.

"It was simple," Quinn continued, "You make me happy—and you like the way I hold you…and you never tried to push me. It was never complicated before tonight."

Rachel shook her head, eyes bright, "I _want _to…complicate you. I want you to complicate me. I—I don't want to be the girl that's _easy _to be with—and easy to waste time on. I want to be the girl that changes you, Quinn. I want to be the girl that makes you _want _to change. And become who you deserveto befor yourself."

She sighed, shakily—she had the horrible tendency to waver at the precise moment it was imperative she be strong. She tried not to cry; blinking at tears.

"I can't be irreverentabout you, Quinn. You're better than the life you've settled into. And you're too smart to do what it is that you do. And watching you—reveal yourself as this… _coward_—breaks my heart."

Her voice piqued, and her words rushed together—bumped into each other, "But it's really none of my business, is it? Because we're barely even friends. And this was a mistake. I shouldn't have made you stay…that night you sang Sinatra to me," she chuckled, self-deprecatingly, "It's just that I'm sort of a sucker for that sort of thing."

Quinn's eyes flashed burnt-amber at her; they reminded Rachel (a slow realization) of the sunsets she used to watch in the window of her very first apartment (a brown-brick tenement that faced the most picturesque sunsets), "Let me get this straight: you're kicking me out," she licked her lip, "I know a little something about how that goes."

She dropped her arm from Rachel's waist—the girl caught it, and held on to the backs of her fingers, "Quinn…"

The slow, inevitable question bloomed in Rachel's eyes—irises growing bright and wide.

Quinn sensed it, sullenly. When she spoke, she sounded tedious and very matter-of-fact, "My…my dad kicked me out once. He found me in my room with a boy when I was sixteen and…it was a long time ago. I was just trying to be normal—like he'd like."

Rachel watched Quinn's bright, golden hair sway listlessly—she shook her head and pinched closed her eyes. "It was a long time ago," she repeated, softly.

Rachel thought that—though the image killed her—sorrow suited Quinn best. Her eyes grew clear and bright, and her jaw-line grew rigid. Rachel kissed her there.

She thought of the last time she'd promised herself never to fall in love—she'd been twenty-two, heartbroken over a grad student named Missy McCormick who had bright red hair and knew the names of all her bones.

She'd been too young before this precise moment to've ever noticed it, but sometimes women look at you like you could make them really happy if you'd let go of some pride for them. And whether you want to or not, for the rest of your life, you feel responsible for their happiness.

She threw her arms around Quinn's neck, and cradled her head in them, kissing her hair and whispering "stay—I'm sorry—stay, okay?—I'm sorry."

. . .

. . .

a/n:

Rachel Berry's preferences: blondes vs. brunettes. Crunchy vs. smooth peanut butter. Aisle seat vs. window seat on an airplane (no one likes to be in the middle, it's not worth including), almond milk vs. soy milk vs. coconut milk as vegan alternatives.

Sorry the updates have been sparse. The story itself (fast-paced I know) is only a few updates away from its conclusion anyway. Hope you liked this installment!


	6. You wake up as late as you want to

Chapter 6: You wake up as late as you want to

. . .

. . .

"It's called _Come on, Wake up_."

Quinn couldn't hear her past the mandolins—the headphones cupped her ears comfortably, canceled noise. She watched Rachel's lips move (forming words she couldn't hear), and listened to her sing—in her sweet soprano: the headphones filled her up with the sound.

_Lucy dearest, _

_It's been a won-der-ful night_.

It was a dreamy purr—eternally soothing, almost like a lullaby. She was instantly sleepy.

_We'll talk until the moon—_

_Shatters!_

_And later—I'll watch you put it on paper._

"Wait."

Quinn swallowed, rather dryly. She pulled the headphones' cord until they slipped off the crown of her head, and lay draped around her neck, nestled between her collarbones—the music a soft vibration there now.

The gas station mini-mart was dreadfully quiet and droll in comparison to Rachel's song. Quinn's heart beat louder than anything in the room—she thought Rachel and the half-asleep clerk could both hear it, clearly.

"This is about me."

Rachel looked away, strategically. Quinn's tone had been at once reproachful and incredulous. She played it off, with a wry smirk on her lips, "If you're dating a singer who doesn't write songs about you, then you might just be fucking one."

Quinn's face grew pale (and her lips as well).

"I'm _kidding_," Rachel was a beautiful example of forced nonchalance—hands at her slim hips, shoulders slumped; stolid and apathetic, "It doesn't even _apply _to us—it's just something I say whenever women—"

Quinn's jaw tensed tightly. Rachel watched its tendons flex, and sighed. Her eyes flittered across the expanse of the shop; small and fluorescent. A headache flared promptly from behind her brow.

"Have you picked a snack—for the movie?"

Quinn's hand closed and opened impetuously; making fists for the fun of it, "I'm not even hungry anymore."

"Perfect then," She pulled Quinn by the wrist, and led her out like a petulant child, "We get to leave."

"You didn't get your unsalted plantain chips."

"I don't care."

"Well, you'll want them in ten minutes—so let's just—"

The outside was cool—Quinn could see her own breath; thin and delicate. Its existence very transient, very barely-there.

They had their photos taken—there were maybe three clicks, flashes of them standing close, where Rachel's hand was around her forearm. Quinn saw the lights and yanked her arm away.

She started walking backwards, away from Rachel; steps punctuated by the flash of a bright light, "I'll go the long way."

"What?"

"I'll—walk—I'll go the long way. I'll meet you."

It was quiet. Besides the click of a camera, all Rachel could hear was her own voice from the headphones, growing dimmer as Quinn walked away.

_And you don't…_

_Even bother, do you?_

_You wake up…_

_As late as you want to._

There were six photographs taken—six poses where her heart was breaking; standing alone outside a gas station in Monticello—before she ever even started walking home.

. . .

. . .

Quinn tried hard to stay awake, waiting for Rachel—she'd made a makeshift-mattress out of blankets on the girl's balcony, and watched for her.

The moon settled lower, and lower. It was growing so late. Her eyelids were heavy—but her heart was sinking faster than the rest of her. Irrational scenarios played out behind her eyelids—dreams of Rachel caught up in some peril or another, because Quinn had left her alone. Quinn wasn't there to make fists, and pout, and brood over her shoulder—scaring all the bad luck away. So Rachel met a sleek black cat. Or she walked under a ladder. Or she was in some bar—writing songs or not writing songs about women who weren't _her._

And all because she was scared of photographs. Scared of being held accountable for what she was.

She was such a coward—she even whimpered in her sleep.

. . .

. . .

"Oh _god_," Rachel cursed, breathily, "Is _this _where you are?"

She watched Quinn—asleep on the platform; shivering. Her skin shone like marble—pale and bright.

Rachel collapsed over her; dragging the girl into her by slender shoulders. She kissed her cool, marble jaw, telling her, "You're an idiot. And an asshole. And I should know better. I shouldn't be so attracted to you."

There was simply something so intangibly serendipitous about their relationship. Half-witted attempts at picking up some morose girl at a bar—it bloomed into moments like this, where Rachel stared wonderingly at the infinitesimal curve of her nose until her lips puckered unwittingly and she had to kiss it; she had to impress her love on it—and all the parts that made up Quinn: the expanse of her forehead, her cheekbones, her chin.

She never tired of her.

She kissed her 'til Quinn woke, with a frown, mumbling, "The moon kissed the tops of all the buildings before you…before you came home."

Rachel's mouth traced the contours of her collarbones, "Mmn hmm."

Quinn cradled the girl's head in her palms, her mind focusing—the nerve-endings on her collarbone woke first, tingling; hot and wet, "You've been warming me up, huh?"

Rachel made reverent love to her neck—Quinn felt her nod slightly through all of it, murmuring, "Warming you up is it exactly."

When Rachel pulled away, the wind ripped through the spaces her mouth had been, leaving Quinn cold again.

"Where were you?"

Quinn could make the barest, slightest, most impetuous little incident seem suddenly enormous to Rachel. She hadn't meant to cause that hurt in her eyes.

"I'd…" she cleared her throat, "I'd come home but…I didn't want to open the door for some reason. I think I honestly couldn't look at you just then. So I walked to Myra's…and sat for a while. I had two—three daiquiris. And talked a little with the bartender."

"Oh."

Quinn watched the sky. It was the dead of night, all right.

"Okay—that—I wouldn't want to look at me either. So it makes sense."

Rachel lied, quiet—motionless and expressionless; watching Quinn count stars.

"I'm sorry."

Quinn's palm cupped her cheek, with a warm, light touch, "No. _I'm _sorry. I'm—I wonder why you like me, all the time."

Rachel smiled at her, gently, "You have a great mind. Everything you say sounds like poetry to me. And sometimes—just looking at your eyes is enough to understand everything—everything you've said and the things you couldn't. You're clearly charming, and you clearly don't know it—or it doesn't faze you. And you're…you're also the prettiest girl I've ever met, Quinn. It'd be _exhausting_, trying not to like you."

Quinn flushed. Rachel kissed her cheek, "Come on darling, let's go to bed now."

. . .

Quinn tried politely to look away as Rachel undressed by her open dresser. She usually did so in the bathroom, but likely didn't care this late at night.

Quinn a-hemmed softly, after a moment, "Are you uh…"

"I'm in my underwear."

Rachel's tone depressed Quinn thoroughly—sort of exasperated, and dry.

"I can't find my sleeping shorts anywhere—so you might have to sleep with your head twisted away like that. Of course, then you might get a crick in your neck. Maybe you should sleep in the guest bedroom. It's a better idea. There's no chance then that you might accidentally catch a wicked glimpse of my—_panties _for Moses' sake."

Quinn's shoulders fell heavily. All of her mind's processes during the last few months rested atop them. She'd been somber, and strict, and (evident to her now) a silly, immature girl about everything.

She smirked sheepishly, "I think I'll stay here and just, y'know…pray about it later."

Rachel turned to her, eyes wide; gauging her earnestness, and giggled, "I like it when you're being sarcastic."

Quinn's eyes flitted brightly towards the ceiling—the considerable space between she and it cleared her mind a little (as a lifelong claustrophobe, empty spaces did wonders for her mood—alleviated every fever), "Well, you bring it out in me. Santana and you do. Or maybe it's just infuriating little brunettes who can never shut up about anything to save their _lives _that brings it out in me, in a general sense."

"Maybe," Rachel conceded, because she wasn't anything if she wasn't an objective conversationalist—clever, and bright, and practical; "Or _maybe _some nice Christian girls aren't as nice as they want to seem."

Quinn looked at her then—in her camisole (always lacy, with straps made for taller girls that were constantly falling down her shoulders), and in her sheer black panties. She could vaguely see the whorls of her lips (a rich burgundy like red wine—a glass of pinot noir now that she thought of it), unfurling—puckered cheekily—from beneath a chaste center. Her hands had never had such bad intentions.

"You're right," she mumbled, voice a tad more rough than usual, "I'm nothing like the poster-girl version of myself. I don't…I don't really think I've ever been."

Rachel frowned—still unused to the sharp ascents and descends in Quinn's moods—and after long seconds, sighed, "You know that uh… that creepy stare-y thing you do where your eyes turn three shades brighter usually precedes some long, prosy speech where you wax poetic about…the line of my jaw or…whatever else it is you think about when you spend _hours _being quiet. But…please don't aim one of those things at my _vulva_, Quinn—it's really just too much. I don't have the patience."

Quinn blinked, and looked so suddenly terrified that Rachel regretted speaking immediately (she felt like this around Quinn constantly). She'd never met someone so strong and so sensitive.

Her hands found Quinn's shoulders—found them trembling violently—and she cupped them over her neck instead, pulling her down so their lips could reach each other's (just a brief, dry sweep), "I'm sorry. It was a dumb—joke."

Quinn's eyes drooped—pinned to the floor—the floor was too close. They swerved up to the ceiling (a penetrating green now that let Rachel know she still wasn't okay).

She pulled back so Quinn's lungs could hold air again.

Quinn was happiest frozen cold and surrounded by nothing. It was unsettling knowledge.

Rachel moved to sit, still and upright, in bed, and watched her take calculated, even breaths.

The wind slammed against the window-pane. And Quinn turned to her—abruptly—at the noise; eyes a soft, neutral hazel.

"Sorry—"

"Don't be—I teased you."

"Well," Quinn walked towards the bed, in Rachel's _Wicked _t-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms, "I was…all stare-y."

Rachel pressed her cheek against the—rather lengthy—bare strip of Quinn's midriff (she loved to stick her in her clothes, which always fit her too small to be decent at all), "It's okay."

Quinn smiled, lopsided and almost silly, "No—I, I was seconds away from starting a sentence with _the endless depths_."

Rachel grazed her teeth along Quinn's waist, "Asshole. Liar. You were _not_."

"Was too."

Rachel tugged the drawstrings on Quinn's pants, hard, until they were tangled up in bed.

Quinn let her full weight fall on Rachel. Blood fled her limbs—to her heart, to her clitoris; drumbeats going off.

_I have an anarchist-clitoris—it doesn't give a damn about my right-brain or my dogma. _

"Mmn."

She was hyper-aware of the translucent little bit of material that kept her from Rachel. Her leg twitched, and her thigh grazed against it—she was warm.

"Damn, Rachel."

The words fell from pursed lips, along with a heavy, dying breath. There was a sudden sickness in her stomach, a nervous tension.

She murmured, "you make my palms ache," before she could help it.

Rachel's sweet honeythighs wrapped around her hips then. She opened herself up.

_She wants me. She arched her back into me. _

Quinn grabbed her waist, dragging her palms along silk and lace and the warmth underneath it. She kissed her frantically.

"Mmfuck," Rachel's mouth whimpered onto Quinn's. It was electric—Quinn's lips, Quinn's tongue, Quinn's teeth; clashing clumsily against her. Bruises would bloom on her lips tomorrow—lilac and violet. It beat a bouquet any day.

The kiss was half an instant—its breathless aftermath lasted centuries (Quinn's eyes, a hazy amber—bright suns dipping into the sea).

Quinn's lips were dry. Rachel licked them.

A furtive excitement seized Quinn's mouth at the action—and she closed it over Rachel's tongue, sucking at it.

"Mmn—" she pushed at Quinn's shoulders, "Quinn—wait—wait, wait."

Quinn ground her hips against her, and growled, "_Now_—after you—let me look at you? Walking around the room in lin—lingerie?"

Quinn's breath was warm, on her cheek, along her neck, between her collarbones.

"Wait, wait. _Please. _Wait."

"You seduced _me_—you've been trying for _months_."

"_Stop_!" She shoved her, not moving her at all. Quinn twisted off her herself, with a scowl. Rachel turned to look at her after two deep breaths (eyes aimed at the ceiling; mimicking a pose she so often caught Quinn in).

She relaxed at the shift in Quinn's eyes, serious now—heartbroken and a little angry.

"How come?" she whispered.

Rachel swallowed—goosebumps mottled her arms, "Because I don't want to wake up tomorrow to some haphazardly scribbled note—written in eyeliner—on-onto a page you rip off your journal—and it's just two or three unsatisfying little lines outlining your gay panic—_I can't _or _I'm sorry _or _I made a terrible mistake_. And then I realize that I fucked my friend—when she asked me not to. Not to even try. And it's one thing to flirt with the line, Quinn—but it's another thing to cross it. You told me when we met what you needed from me—and what you couldn't accept from me. And I need to respect you."

Quinn took in a hard breath through her nose, "Don't respect what I said then. And I won't respect what you're saying now. And then we'll both be as ruinous and irresponsible as the other."

She cupped her cheek and kissed her lips—already pursed to protest. The war began, between their tongues. Rachel was too easy a victory—sighing helplessly into Quinn's mouth.

"Mmn. You taste like a white flag."

"_Shut up_."

Quinn's palm traced a sinuous path down Rachel's torso.

"Quinn—what—what're you _doing_?"

She sounded petulant and panicked.

Quinn licked her lips, "If I can't be full with you out there—in the world…I can at least be full with you in here, right?"

She grabbed at Rachel's panties—her fingertips sliding along wet lace. Until they were hooked inside it.

Rachel gasped at her, _"Quinn!"_

"I feel your pulse on your clitoris," she mumbled, onto a half-closed mouth, "It's a poetic little pitter-patter. I like it."

Rachel's brows furrowed; her pout between her teeth. "Quinn—you—"

Her eyes opened hazily, glancing between them— Quinn's hand covered her entirely; it was all she could see, "_Fuck_." And then Quinn's fingertips, followed by the ridges of her knuckles, slid past her lips; until she was two fingers into her, and Rachel had to close her eyes.

Quinn had never really registered how sensitive her fingers were until they were sliding, almost unintentionally, inside of Rachel. It wasn't deliberate, because she still wasn't sure what she was doing. The reticent intent of her hands and mouth was clear—but it reached no other part of her. She couldn't think in the hot, infinitesimal space between she and Rachel's mouths—Rachel's clit, her pulse, on her wrist, beating against her own, Rachel's wetness sliding between her knuckles and down to her palm; Rachel's walls clasped possessively around her digits. It was all too much.

Her ring finger twitched—jealous of the other too. She pressed it inside, and flexed them all upwards until she felt Rachel contract.

Dark lashes fluttered; chestnut irises rolled upwards, and then focused—the hot little veins in Quinn's forearm pulsed, like they were too full. Her bicep and the tendons in her shoulder dipped in and out of view—hidden, vivid and protuberant, hidden, vivid and protuberant—over and over to the rhythm of Quinn's thrusting digits.

She grabbed manically for Quinn's wrist, stilling it—and rotated her hips on rigid, motionless fingers, "Do you feel that?"

It was a breathy, broken sigh, "What is that?"

Rachel slid soft ridges against the pads of her fingers—rubbing them along hyper-sensitive nerves, "That's my g-spot."

Quinn watched her. She was so tight—she looked at Quinn, starry-eyed. In love.

Quinn was suddenly completely sure that she'd never be the same after this. Rachel kept clinging. Tighter and tighter, to her fingers.

Her heart beat wildly.

Her wrist went limp. Her lungs were empty—she breathed a dozen quick, shallow breaths before taking back her hand, roughly, and springing from the bed, the warmth, the sweat—she needed seclusion; isolation, the cold.

"_Oh _my god!" Quinn's forearm wiped at her brow. She was gasping now.

Rachel's eyes pinched shut—her cry was strangled—the spasms of her insides grew painful at their parting. She grasped at nothing. Quinn had left her with nothing. Quinn had deprived her—and left her aching.

She felt something fall inside her chest—shattering in her stomach; its pieces tearing her apart. Making her sick.

"Quinn?—What're you…?"

"That was too much," Quinn glanced everywhere—there wasn't enough space within the walls of this bedroom, "I can't, Rachel."

She had such a pretty mouth, Rachel thought—even as it twitched and wrapped around her soft "I'm sorry."

"I—"

. . .

. . .

"Made a terrible mistake," she finished, watching the bartender's eyes widen sympathetically, "And then she left—with this…infuriating pout, and these…big, shining eyes. She…she does this thing with her eyes sometimes that makes me think she's infinitely capable of tears. She has these—_heartrending _looks_. _They break my heart. And I'd forgive her anything. I'd—end up apologizing, over and over for the rest of my life."

The bartender shook her head, beneath the bar lights—she was all bright, brown eyes and short, riotous red hair.

"The _asshole_—here babe, try a banana daiquiri."

Rachel 'hmmed' distractedly—busy absorbing the girl's looks. It was for the first time, really. She was pretty.

"I don't _like _bananas, bartender—that should be obvious to you."

They giggled, and the bartender ran a freckled hand over her eyes, "An appletini, then. Just—no more strawberry daiquiris. You'll vomit red, and it's the _worst _color to try to get out of furniture."

Rachel's nose crinkled cutely, "_Ew_."

"Mmn hmm," the bartender took her hand, gently—turning it over and running the pad of her thumb along the lines in her palm, before placing a warm kiss at its center.

Rachel swayed a little closer (she liked the quirk of her brow; curving elegantly as she kissed her hand)—her lips pouted pensively. She couldn't lick them without tasting alcohol.

A glance passed between them—Rachel's eyes half-lidded and coy, hers warm and interested.

"Hey," Rachel told her, "Take me home, okay?"

The bartender a-hemmed, and tried hard not to smirk too widely, "My shift ends in thirty."

"That's _devastating_. If your shift ended now—in thirty, you'd be—"

She exhaled a deep breath—chuckling at her own luck.

"Fuck it then—let's—duck out."

. . .

Rachel watched her—as they strolled, from her periphery.

Her brown pork pie hat— she wore it right on the crown of her head; leaving her chaotic bangs free and flowing (falling, occasionally, into her eyes). Her denim jacket, lapels flipped up. Her irreverent, red smirk. It all reminded her of every girl she'd ever carelessly fucked. Bodies crashing like car accidents between uninsured youths. Maybe she was getting too old for it—she wished fleetingly, that she was a little less sad, a little less drunk; that she cared enough to save her conscience this blow. But she didn't.

An arm hooked around her neck, "C'mon toots."

"Okay," she breathed, feeling very light. Very twenty-two.

"This is _so _two years ago."

The bartender quirked her brow in that way Rachel liked, "Is that _so_?"

She nodded—a quick succession of scenes playing out behind her eyes. She might as well be dog-earing indie scripts right now.

"You're good-looking," Rachel told her, abruptly, almost unwittingly, "And charming. And you listen well. How often does this happen for you?"

"Does _what _happen?"

Rachel scoffed, "What's _about_ to happen."

"Oh," she smirked—lips turned up in a wry little curve, "Pretty often."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty two."

She buried her face into a denim lapel, and giggled, "Oh _God_—you're—of course you are."

The bartender kissed her temple, lightly (she was tall—five nine, maybe), "I like older women."

Rachel knotted a hand into her t-shirt, frowning deeply, "Don't say that. That's—it'll ruin the mood, okay?"

"God, I don't want to do that."

They laughed. It twittered upwards—blending with the cold, the streetlights, the moon (overwrought with light that night). Rachel hadn't walked home since she could afford regular cab fare—it was nice.

Just as they'd reached her door, the bartender squeezed her shoulder gently, "Hey—you uh—you sure?"

Rachel looked up into her light brown eyes—this was an earnest girl, if anything.

"I like your hands. And I like your hat. And honestly—I've fucked girls for stupider reasons."

. . .

. . .

a/n: on to your chorus of no's.

yes faberry. yes otp. yes happy ending.


	7. Pour me something, make it a double

Chapter 7: Pour me something, make it a double.

. . .

. . .

The field was featureless; except for the flitting neon lights, and the electric hum, of fireflies in flight. The field was theirs. She and Quinn were visitors.

The sky was a swirl—of ocean blue and murky white. It all seemed really distant anyway, except for the temperature. It was cold as a mausoleum. If it wasn't for the flicker of Quinn's eyelashes beneath her, Rachel would've checked her pulse.

She grazed the pad of her thumb over Quinn's wrist and pinched her; pressing the skin against the knuckle of her index finger.

_I knew I couldn't find your eyes amongst a field of fireflies, if I tried._

Quinn's irises were indistinguishable from the swarm—fluttering left and right beneath her lashes, in search of empty space. Rachel closed her eyes and wished the clouds away. She blinked them open to watch the clouds unfurl and lose their color. Stars blinked back at her. She closed her eyes until they faded.

_Is that better, baby? Now that I moved the universe around for you?_

She looked down at Quinn, and panic seized her. She couldn't find her eyes. The field was dense with insects—Rachel could feel their vibrations on her skin, and through it. They flew through her like vibrant ghosts.

_Quinn, where are you?—Look at me!_

_Look at me._

_Look at me, Quinn. Look at me!_

She was floating up—her body filled with the flutter of a dozen wings. She watched Quinn turn to smoke, save for her eyes which flittered away.

It was _all_ turning to smoke—burned by a fire she'd known had been there but stopped noticing.

She couldn't even feel the temperature anymore.

. . .

. . .

She woke—feeling she'd die for lack of air.

It was quite warm in her bed. And dark, though she didn't remember having closed the drapes last night.

She knew instinctively that it was morning—that she had woken minutes before her alarm would ring. In a cold sweat. She closed her eyes, and recalled hazily—a featureless field that stretched to forever and Quinn, dissolving to smoke save for her bright, neon eyes.

She gasped. Her foot kicked reflexively, and knocked against a tranquil shin. She blinked her eyes open and watched the body next to her, albeit incredulously—a slender bartender, stirring awake. Her limbs were everywhere. Smooth and gangly. They each were nude.

"_God_, are you tall." She whispered it.

There was a thoughtful, reverent silence as Rachel watched the girl wake—the slight twitch of her jaw, the delicate movement of her lips; pursed as if to speak.

"Mmn." She inhaled deeply and opened her light brown eyes to look at Rachel's, "Hey—morning."

"Are you up?"

"Mhm—yes."

"_Up_-up?"

The bartender raked a hand through her hair (a tangled mess of cowlicks), and cleared her throat, "Yeah—up-up."

"Do you wake early—habitually?"

The bartender found nothing odd about the question. She kept a hand at the crown of her head, trying to smooth down locks, "I do. And I sleep late. I can…only really stand to sleep four hours a night."

Rachel smiled at her, "That's interesting. I wake early and sleep early habitually. I hate late mornings and I hate late nights."

"That seems about right for you."

Rachel blinked; her wide eyes adapting to the dim light that spilled over from the edges of her drapes. She'd never seen the bartender outside of amber-tinted bar lights, or dying streetlights, and looked her over now.

She had a thin face, and a strong jaw. Quinn had a wide face, and a strong jaw.

"Unplug the clock," she told her, and watched her reach for it. She didn't cover herself up with sheets or anything. "I um—I keep it on the opposite side from where I sleep so I have to move to turn it off. It assures I wake successfully no later than 6 AM every morning."

The bartender stretched, fingertips to the ceiling, "That's smart of you."

"Is that an appreciable quality to you, in a woman?"

"It's a _necessary _quality, actually."

Rachel slid across the empty expanse between them; placed her cheek on the girl's shoulder, "I broke it off with my first boyfriend, because he failed to think that way."

The bartender dragged her knuckles lightly along Rachel's jaw; stroking it.

Rachel burrowed into her, "His name was Finn Hudson. He was uncomfortably tall, and a bad driver, and sweet but very boring. He told me—'I wish you didn't think so much.' It's still the—the most careless thing anyone's ever said to me. And it was so obvious to me suddenly that I couldn't ever love him. I wanted to, but never could."

The bartender sucked at her lip, "Were you aware you didn't—before the break-up, I mean?"

"Yes. But I thought, someday, I might. That it was _possible, _if he ever fulfilled this fantasy I had of him—it was never too clear or anything—but I had this vague idea that he might become someone great. Honest, and independent, and supportive. And besides—he picked _me_, you know? The prettiest girls in the school wanted him and he somehow managed to look past their blonde heads and light eyes and see…me."

She nuzzled the tip of her nose along the bartender's neck—she could smell the cigarette smoke that, nightly, curled around her, the scent of alcohol, and a sweet—but rather cheap—cologne. She'd have to wash her off her sheets tonight.

"Mnn," the bartender's voice rumbled in her throat—causing vibrations against Rachel's cheek, "Did you always know you liked girls or…'cause of your parents, have you always been—really open sexually?"

Rachel lifted her head—the barest bit; just enough to search brown eyes, "My parents?"

"I've—read interviews. You had two dads."

"Oh," Rachel giggled, "Okay. Well—no. _God _no. As a girl I was some uppity little ego-monster who was too consumed with—this myth I was making for myself, this story I wanted to live, to really—give much of anything that was really _about _me any thought. I always assumed I was very, very—just, consummately heterosexual. Because I just—felt so _comfortable _around boys. I was never anxious around them—they never made me twist my hands together, or bite my lips, or stare down at the floor when they looked at me. Girls drove me crazy. The pretty ones made my face feel hot, and I couldn't ever speak to them. I wasn't irreverent…I—I wanted their approval. But half the time they wouldn't look at me, and the other half of the time they'd roll their eyes at me."

The bartender exhaled incredulously, lips split in a smile, "But you're…_Rachel Berry_."

Rachel scoffed.

"Well—sure, _now _they're falling all over themselves to fuck me," it was dry, and winsomely self-deprecating, "But they never would've glanced at me in knee socks and mary janes with no red carpet underneath."

"It was their loss."

Rachel shook her head.

"It wasn't—I was a huffy little diva then; an absolute headache really."

She traced the bartender's lips with the thimble-sized tip of her index finger. She was obsessed with them. They were young, and full of color—bright, deep, red. They curved easily—twitched into sincere little smiles.

"Maybe you were," the bartender spoke finally, "But you were also worth it."

Rachel watched her—her strong jaw tensed with some earnest conviction, "You're sweet. I would've given you two months."

The bartender giggled, "I would've given you two months too."

Rachel curled a hand behind her neck and pulled her down into a kiss (smiling red lips giving in easily).

. . .

. . .

It was Quinn versus the blank wall in her small apartment. The blank wall that faced her—four feet across her bed—not the blank walls that ran parallel, nor the one behind. Those she ignored. Those made her chest feel tight.

_I hate this room_.

She could conjure up every poster on Rachel's wall. The photographs with the smiling paper faces, the porcelain figurines, and the scented candles.

She'd mapped them out all night. Her phone, heavy in her palm, as she contemplated using it.

Thinking of the words she'd say—words that could change her scenery. Grant her access back home.

"_I'm just so scared."_

"_I'm scared one day I'm going to say something so stupid, you'll stop taking me back."_

"_Sometimes I feel like all I am is my secret's keeper. And I wonder how you could stand to be around that—there's nothing to love about that."_

"_I know I'm not gonna be okay tomorrow. And I know I'm not gonna be okay next week. But I want you to be there for all of it—and I…and I know how awful that is."_

"_I wish I'd met you when I was fifteen. And then at least…it'd be normal that I was just some thoughtless, selfish idiot. I wish I hadn't stayed stagnant my whole youth because now I'm…all over the place. I can't catch a grip on myself…and I can't hold onto you. But it's all I want to do."_

And it went like that all night. Mind reeling, phone dead in her hand.

. . .

. . .

It was twelve o'clock in the afternoon the second time Rachel woke.

The bartender was pulling back the drapes—the noon sun was coming in, bright; shining its light on their languid, naked bodies.

"I had a nightmare," Rachel told her, "I've had it twice."

The bartender crawled back up the bed—with the same easy pace she took for every movement—kissing a trail up Rachel's body as she went (light brown eyes holding hers in place), "I _told _you we shouldn't have gone to sleep. 'Coulda just kept going."

Long arms circled behind Rachel's back; tucking her in beneath a warm, heavy body.

Rachel nuzzled the crown of her head. It was where she smelled the sweetest. Like product. Pomade or fiber.

"You're so…_easy_," she breathed into her, "You're so easy."

The light shone on the bartender's cheekbones as they fell—her strong jaw fell. Rachel cupped it, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by it—"

"No, no," The bartender shook her head back and forth to soothe her, though her eyes were wide and startled, "I—It's just—it's just you're the sixth woman in my life to ever tell me that. In that same tone of voice…sort of like you…like you…" she smiled sheepishly, "Like you wished you could love me."

Rachel sighed, from the very bottom of her lungs. She kissed her hair.

Snow fell outside—it'd been falling steadily all morning. Rachel was glad she was inside, that she was warm.

. . .

. . .

Quinn had gotten up, skipped breakfast. She put on a brown, corduroy overcoat and walked into the cold. She'd decided too much time had passed to call.

. . .

. . .

The third time she woke, Rachel found she hadn't dreamt at all. It had been a blacked-out sleep. The sex had been rough, and quick. She'd fallen to pieces in minutes.

The bartender's bicep was curled around her neck—holding her firmly against a bare chest. The barest swell there.

"Are you up?" The bartender asked her, in her coarse young voice.

Rachel burrowed her forehead against the rise of a breast, "Mmn…_hmm_."

"_Up_-up?"

"Shut your—_gorgeous _face."

They giggled. Rachel's head felt heavy, and warm, "I need to shower. I need to wake myself up—I can still feel you inside and it hurts a little."

She winced, "Sorry."

"No—that's," Rachel kissed her nipple, and watched it curl up and harden, "I got what I needed from you. It's only fair you got what you needed from me."

She licked her red lips. Rachel sat up at the sight.

"You can join me, in the shower. But it'll be the last time. And then I want you to get dressed, and I'll make you coffee, and then I'll send you home. You—you can call me in a week. So we can begin a friendship. Because I like you very much. But if you call me before that, I'll fear you've fallen desperately in love and then you'll never see me again."

Rachel watched her white, round teeth (the barest space between them) close over her bottom lip. She chuckled.

"What sort of shower gel do you use?—because I hate the stuff with the little glittery pebbles," she yawned and stretched long limbs, "Oh!—Can we order take-out?"

. . .

. . .

Quinn glanced straight ahead. She held a bouquet of roses gently in one hand.

Rachel lived in that building—the silvered castle. Rachel lived all the way up there.

Metaphors could be so horribly concrete sometimes.

She nodded towards the doorman, who recognized her and smiled politely.

. . .

There was an elevator that worked only with a pass-code and opened directly in front of Rachel's apartment door. The whole floor was hers.

Quinn paused to breathe—and exhaled lengthily from pursed lips. Her heart beat hard in her chest.

It took three deep breaths to knock just once. It was barely a scrape against the door, but she soon heard footsteps. Quick footsteps.

. . .

The wax paper wrapped around the bouquet made a crinkling noise—her palm was curled into a tight fist.

Quinn looked at her—she was in Rachel's robe, dripping wet and smelling like her.

"You're wearing her robe."

It was pastel-pink, with a yellow star stitched to a pocket on the right hip. Sort of hard to miss.

"I uh," the girl (wide-eyed and staring) spoke up, her voice rough and rather low, "Didn't have mine on me."

Quinn's face was pale—like a blank tableau. It was as if the artist that painted her had grown bitter and anguished.

Her eyes were bright, "I'm gonna go."

Little frowning ridges appeared between the bartender's brows, "_Quinn_—I could call her."

"Don't. It's nothing important."

"It's just—" she licked her lips, "Because of the flowers…"

Quinn blinked. All the pain in the world could pour from her eyes, with a single look, "Listen. I—listen, just—don't tell her I came. All right? Don't—don't mention it to her at all."

Red lips were trapped between teeth and sucked at, over and over—hard enough to be painful. Hard enough to distract her from the feeling swirling through her abdomen—of falling, "Quinn—I just—"

"I don't want to have to beg you for anything," Quinn's voice was shaky; barely there, "So—don't make me."

"O—Okay."

Her brows peaked sardonically, "Thanks. You're a gentleman and a scholar."

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"Don't _worry_ about it."

. . .

. . .

She sat, alone, in a red park bench. Mothers and laughing children walked by. She wasn't very far from the silvered castle at all.

She picked a red bulb from a stem, and crushed it in her fist.

She kept imagining different scenarios—any other way it could've gone.

She could've sucker-punched her pretty red mouth.

"_Ow—Am I bleeding!?"_

"_No—want me to try again?"_

And then she would. Until the bartender disappeared into nothing. And she'd run across the length of the penthouse into Rachel's arms for sweet assurances that "_nothing happened" _and _"nothing happened" _and _"nothing happened._"

Except it obviously did.

She remembered when she first felt herself abnormal. Her very first school dance—grade six. Her hair was long and blonde and limp. She wore large, round glasses. She was clumsy—just couldn't balance well. She had a friend named Maria who liked to dance, and asked her to. So she flushed, and stuttered yes. She put her hands on little hip bones and shuffled her feet back and forth, drolly. She was careful with her feet—she didn't want to scuff Maria's little red shoes; they'd been her big sister's first heels last year, but this year they were hers.

A blonde boy named Rider who played junior football tapped Quinn's shoulder. He told her, "lemme have this one," and stepped between them. He scuffed Maria's shoes and grabbed her waist. Maria didn't seem to mind. She laid her palms at his nape. Later, she'd laugh, giddy, "My first dance with a _boy_!"

Quinn had first danced with a boy the year before, at her cousin's birthday party. She hadn't given a damn about his Nikes.

She'd kept the thought to herself. She was a reservoir of thoughts. She spent her whole life biting her lips to keep quiet while Riders and red-haired Bartenders tapped at her shoulder—"lemme have this one."

"Do you think—do you think she'd _care _if she scuffed your little red shoes, Rachel?"

She whispered it to nobody, tasting tears on her lips.

. . .

. . .

The bartender stood, for minutes, barefoot in the living room. Water dripped down the slope of her nose, from her hair.

Rachel's casual little footsteps sounded off, wet against the marble floor, "Was it the take-out guy?"

She looked up, a little dazedly, "Uh—no. No. You were right. It wasn't anyone."

"Told you so," she stood up on her naked little toes, to wrap her arms around the bartender's neck and kiss her, "Sometimes ghosts come to my door. This penthouse is _haun-ted_."

Her mouth was half-open, and slightly startled, "Let's get dressed."

"Are you frightened?" Rachel giggled, "You seem frightened. I was joking."

Wild red locks shook back and forth—droplets falling everywhere, "I just want to be dressed. I haven't been dressed all day. I feel like a mess."

. . .

Rachel smoothed down the lapels on the bartender's denim jacket. She kissed her lips. She took her hat.

"I'm keeping it, as a souvenir."

The bartender flushed, "Okay."

Rachel placed it on the crown of her head—it was just a tad too big.

"What name should I put on my contacts list when I add you?"

The bartender smirked, "I dunno—the one you screamed all night seems fitting now."

"No, no, that's—Bartender is the nameless girl I hooked up with, who knows me from a litany of different angles," she smiled wide, and winked, "I want a name for the girl who calls me in a week and is a friend and a favored confidante."

There was a wistful smile (a new sort that Rachel hadn't seen before and seemed almost shy) and then, "Ashley O'Malley."

Rachel nodded, "I like it."

. . .

. . .

Quinn walked miserably—and for a while—until she wandered straight into some nondescript bar that held for her no memories.

She reached the bartender—who was a stocky, rather unattractive male in his fifties. _Lucky for you, Mick._

"Pour me something—make it a double."


	8. I did it my way

Chapter 8: I did it my way.

. . .

. . .

As Quinn was leaving the bar, the snow outside was just thinning out.

Stray flakes flitted past only when the wind whistled. Like the last few, floating seconds after shaking a snow globe. It swirls a little sadly.

She didn't think it was very pretty at all. And she didn't want to write any poetry about it.

She wanted to watch her boots crush the slush. Left, right, left—beating the ground hard into itself.

She pulled her corduroy overcoat closer to her body. It wasn't the one Rachel had fallen in love with.

It was a dusty brown, and it'd been her great-aunt's.

Her green pea coat was in Rachel's dresser somewhere, as a souvenir (of the first night they'd fallen asleep together—forehead to forehead and limbs tangled up).

She swallowed—bitter, bitter vodka. She felt her head and heart divide—the split had happened a long time ago, but tonight it seemed miles wide. There were whole abysses between what she thought and how she felt. It was cold in the space between the two, where she lived. But her tears—it was funny—they came out pretty hot. She blew a sharp breath—a hollow chuckle.

. . .

. . .

The wind outside groaned, like something pained it.

Rachel wished it would settle.

She was in pink pajamas on her couch. She'd been nursing the same endless cup of sleepytime tea all night (steam curling from it to heat her cheeks). _Funny Girl _played soundlessly across the expanse of the living room—flickering softly through the TV screen, illuminating the dark.

Her diary was on her lap—all frayed edges and old tea stains. She'd read it over until the first of the blank pages, which she stared at—as if it were a problem.

She picked up her pen, with a gentle fist, and began to write.

_Looking back over my entries, I see things have been hard for me. I forget it too often. _

_I haven't written in a year or two, but Quinn does it daily. She does more confessing than a Catholic adolescent. I've watched her hand—knotted into a fist and pushing up against pages—at least a dozen times or more. Sort of manic and strange. _

_I haven't read her diary since those first few days of our—_

She paused, to think about it.

—"_friendship." It's hard not to—I'm terrible. Or she's terrible. Or we both are. But at least I'm not the liar in the relationship. There's that._

_It might not make any sense, but I can't stop thinking about the looks on my fathers faces when I came out of the closet to them. I'd been expecting wide smiles, and some sort of duet sang at me. Very celebratory. Very Berry-clan-theatrics._

_No. They were stoic. I didn't understand it. I was confused, and I guess it must've shown because they put their arms around me very abruptly. It wasn't particularly somber after that, but there were no balloons or anything. _

_I'd sort of brushed it off then. But I can't now. _

_My whole life I've been the sole—or at least the closest—witness of their love. My whole life I've defended that love, with these words: "It's the same. We're the same." _

_Now I'm an adult and I know it's not at all true. It's unequal, isn't it? I guess that's the point of the parades and all. _

_Diary, I'm a twenty-something year old girl who just wants to be taken by the waist, kissed in the street, held, and be tended to, considerately, at restaurants, by a chivalrous woman with nice hands and a strong jaw. That's not at all what you get. _

_My very first date with a woman, she leaned in maybe two inches from my ear to whisper: "I wish I could kiss you right now," with these very sad eyes. We were in the—mostly deserted—patio of some expensive restaurant. There was an elderly heterosexual couple sat across from us (by several tables), glaring. The urge to kiss my date dissipated then. It was all sort of ruined for me. I'd judged her to be a coward._

_And I still do._

_I don't want a woman who loves me just up to the front door of our apartment—and then, abruptly, stops._

_My chivalrous woman and our kiss on the street is not some Finn Hudson-esque fantasy of mine. It's the only way I'm willing to let myself be loved from now on. _

_It hurts to separate yourself from a coward, when you love one. But my self-worth demands it. _

The pen shook above a spot of ink—she didn't at all know what letter she wanted to turn it into.

. . .

. . .

_I always end up here_.

Quinn breathed in hard, through her nose—she was snotty. Her nose was tinted red, and her eyes were a rather glossy marble green.

_I always-always end up here. _

She wished she hadn't crushed the stupid flowers. She was empty-handed and ugly.

She went up to the doorman—approached him cautiously (so as to be inconspicuous), "Hello Sir."

He smiled; kind as he'd ever been, "Hello Miss."

"May I ask you something?"

"Certainly."

Quinn licked her lips—they were dry, and pale, "Has a red-haired girl, a very tall one—has a tall red-haired girl exited recently?"

The doorman watched her with his clear blue eyes, "Not _recently_—but a while ago. Perhaps three hours, Miss."

She nodded slowly, relief sinking in to warm her insides (along with the remnants of the vodka), "Does that girl—does she regularly—have you seen her here often?"

He stared at her directly, and told her confidently, "Last night was the first."

Quinn said "Thank you," and then much more with her eyes, before walking through the silvered building's door.

. . .

. . .

Quinn felt she might—at any moment—turn into just—a long sigh at night-time. She was very drunk. The sort of drunk she'd only ever achieved at sixteen.

There was a headache beneath her left brow only. She breathed in hard and it was only vodka.

She tried, for moments, at the door, to compose herself a little. She didn't want to storm in, with blotches on her face, and—quivering madly— speak nonsense to Rachel that would end in some large accident. Another terrible mistake.

She closed her eyes tightly.

_I'm not that drunk, I'm not that drunk, I'm not that drunk—I just need a glass of water._

She knocked, three times, petulantly, "_Rach_—el."

. . .

. . .

Rachel had drifted off to sleep. _Funny Girl _turned to a black screen, humming impassively. Her endless cup of tea had three honeyed sips left (which were cold).

Her diary was splayed open, just beneath her knees. Undecipherable messages stared up at her. She blinked her eyes in quick succession.

A low growl crawled up beneath the door, "_Rach_-el."

It preceded two slow, hard knocks.

She stirred. Her diary slid from her legs, to the floor.

. . .

. . .

Quinn's heart was pounding, inexplicably.

She heard Rachel's footsteps, and had the dim realization that she didn't have a clue what she would do.

She swallowed dryly. Her own body scared her. Her mouth, most of all. She bit her lips a little violently.

The door opened unsteadily—first the barest slit, then—abruptly—all the way.

"Quinn."

Rachel was rather shocked. Quinn could tell by the shape of her mouth.

. . .

. . .

"I love the way your lips curl up at the edges," Quinn told her, almost tenderly—voice a little strained with something, "I've always loved that about you. It's always drove me crazy."

Rachel watched her. The bulbs of her hazel eyes had never seemed so bright—or wild. She sighed a little tiredly, arms crossed below her breasts, "What've you been drinking?"

Quinn smirked, "Russian Standard—straight."

Rachel's mouth set in a line, "That's very dumb of you."

Quinn scoffed. "Ooh grave wisdom from some—girl who—from _you_—"

Her words were breathy—filled with little unsteady pauses—and her eyes were slightly threatening.

Rachel grabbed her by a bright orange ascot, and dragged her through the door.

"I don't know where I even _find _the patience to deal with you."

Quinn regarded her with hazy, blinking green eyes—and saw it suddenly. On the crown of her head, like a beacon.

Her insides burned. Her blood was probably vodka.

"Nice uh," she spoke, a little fiercely, "Nice _hat_."

Rachel reached for it, unwittingly—almost self-consciously. It was soft felt. It was Ashley's. She'd been wearing it all night, and had forgotten. She nodded demurely.

"Thank you."

Quinn felt almost lucid, "Funny, I've never seen it."

"Why is that funny?"

"Because I've been all over your _closet_," she clenched her teeth, "I've been all over this entire _apartment_. So where the fuck?—are magic hats just—flying in through your windows?"

She snorted, and watched Rachel lick her lips. Brown eyes flicked from the floor to Quinn's own face.

"Never mind," Quinn told her softly, "I've seen it—I _have _seen it. I know of this hat, you know."

Rachel shook her head at her, "You're nonsensical."

"_I _am?" Quinn's brows peaked exaggeratedly, "You're the little lunatic wearing hats indoors. What do ya _need_ 'em for?"

Rachel shrugged, "I get cold."

Quinn's head was whirring. Her palms curled into fists, "Get me a water. Be a good hostess."

She watched Rachel roll her eyes and do her little pirouette toward the refrigerator. She wished she could hate her.

"I've always been a good hostess. Offering you tea, and coffee—"

"And _whatever else_."

Quinn's tone was dark, and suggestive. Too succinct to be joking.

Rachel turned to her, with eyes that were wide and indignant—a little incredulous too, "What are you?—"

"Don't _act_," Quinn leaned forward, almost confidentially, and whispered through a pout, "You're terribly good at it. It's horrible."

Rachel handed her a water bottle—staring at her oddly, "Have you been drinking all night?"

"Yes," Quinn gave a single, stolid nod; twisting open a cap and bringing the bottle to her lips. She drank it down to half rather quickly, and then repeated, "Yes. I've—been drinking all—since six. Drinking and entertaining homicidal fantasies."

Quinn set the bottle easily on a countertop.

Rachel looked surprised—she regarded Quinn at length, "Vodka makes you morbid. You should stick to Scotch, baby."

A resigned sigh left pale lips—in a quick, little puff of air, "No. I'd turn into my father."

Quinn seemed to subside a little; like a wave curling away.

Rachel didn't hesitate. She stepped into her (hands holding on to her shoulder-blades)—and nestled a cheek between Quinn's collarbones, so Quinn had no choice but to smell her hair. There was a foreign scent that mingled with it, and it upset her greatly. She knocked the pork pie hat off the crown of Rachel's head, petulantly—hand curled like a cat's paw, swinging at some scurrying quarry.

"Quinn!"

Wide doe eyes were glaring at her. Rachel's little body slid out of her arms, easy.

Quinn swallowed hard. She gripped a palm over her right wrist. The movement had caused a twinge.

"My wrist still hurts from you…and you've already…"

"_What_?"

"My wrist still hurts from you." It was louder this time. "From what we did. I'd never done it before, obviously. And I guess I'm not usedto it."

Rachel opened her mouth to speak, then hesitated. She settled finally—resignedly—on a soft, impassive: "I'm sorry about that."

Quinn licked her lips, and seemed, for seconds, to contemplate the ceiling. Her imagination sulked, in a corner of her head, pounding shot after shot of sickening imagery. Vivid mental photographs of the bartender occupying the same space she was in now—except without the drooping shoulders, or the watery eyelashes. She'd stand up straight, and smile easy smiles—and across from her, Rachel would be laughing.

"Rachel—can I be honest just for a second?" Quinn asked her suddenly; the barest trace of insistence in her tone.

"Just for a second," Rachel told her, wryly, "Then I want you to go back to being Quinn."

Quinn swallowed back vague unease and nausea, "I _know_."

Rachel watched Quinn's brooding pout curve over the words—she'd barely even spoken them. She stood still—as if she were a portrait of herself. She watched keen green eyes study every brush stroke.

She didn't feel much like pretending, "All right then."

Quinn gaped—her jaw clenched beneath a fevered, ruddy cheek, "That's it?"

"What would you like _instead_, Quinn?"

Quinn blinked slowly. She slid her teeth hard across the expanse of her bottom lip, several times.

"I, I lied awake—and despondent _all _night, and all morning—while _you_ got your insides tugged at by some—"

She shook her head, "Some fucking—_bartender_—whose name, whose name you don't—you don't even know her _name_."

"_No_," Rachel's eyes flashed—dark and solid—like coal over flame, "But I feel like I probably know her ring size."

Quinn raked nails over her hair, then dropped her arms impetuously, and didn't know what to do with them. She clenched her fists at her sides.

Rachel's eyes softened—slowly, inevitably—at the sight of her, "Just calm down. I was just…that was just bravado. I know her name. It's Ashley O'Malley."

Quinn scoffed, "It rhymes like an idiot."

Rachel's heart sank. She watched Quinn wonderingly—the girl was crying, but Rachel didn't think she could feel herself do it. She didn't wipe at her nose or cheeks. Tears slipped unwittingly and undetected from pale green eyes. They raked a line up the expanse of her neck.

Quinn gazed at the lilacs and violets—bruises rested at the crook of Rachel's neck, and a large one mid-column; baby galaxies born from one god or another.

"I don't even know if those are from her or me," her eyes stayed fixed to the sight, "do _you_?—know which is which?"

"It was just sex," Rachel told her, coldly, "You don't have to look so hurt. Everything has to be so _sentimental_ for you."

Quinn's eyes seemed to explode in a sudden burst of color—gold and clover, "I _hate _when people say that. 'It was just sex. _It's meaningless'_—_no_—it's the most intimate thing two people can do together. How the _fuck _can that ever be meaningless?"

Rachel rolled her eyes, with a quick flutter of dark lashes, "It all depends on who those two people _are_, Quinn. It _can_ be meaningless. It can be absurd. It can be _nothing_!"

"Fine," Quinn's jaw clenched tight, "Then what was it with me?'

They stayed silent for whole seconds, neither answering the question. Then Quinn whispered (her brows pulled into a frown), "I don't want you to…with anyone else."

"But I'm not yours," Rachel told her, "And you aren't going to do anything about that—_are_ you?"

Quinn felt her own tears then. A droplet slid down the slope of her nose—and tickled her, "Did she 'destroy' you?"

"What?"

A derisive breath escaped Quinn abruptly, "She told me once—at the bar—that if she ever got to—if she'd ever get to—you know—that she'd destroy you."

Rachel didn't hesitate—except to shake her head, "She's an idiot. You're both such idiots I have to wonder about _myself _sometimes. Girls you fuck for fun never destroy you. Callous girls you fall in love with do."

She watched Quinn's pretty deadpan eyes turn three shades brighter. And she had to close her own to be able to say: "I can't have you in my life anymore, Quinn. You're never going to be the woman I need you to be."

. . .

. . .

a/n: Try to save the slut-shaming to yourselves. It honestly disgusts me.


	9. I've waited hours for this

Chapter 9: I've waited hours for this.

. . .

. . .

It'd been nine days without her, the calendar said.

Quinn wanted to burn it, and spread its ashes over Bellville, Ohio—where she grew up, and died, and was born again.

She reached blindly towards her end-table—pen and notepad brushed against her palm. She collected them in a shaky fist, and scribbled: _It's not even winter anymore. It's not that it's not cold. It's just that I feel it. Its absence, and hers._

The notepad was filled with things she didn't want to forget when she turned sober. Because she drank to forget things she found she couldn't bear to, in the end.

It was silly, really.

. . .

She didn't understand herself. Why she closed her eyes in the morning—why she let herself drift away again so easily.

There were just so few reasons to ever open her eyes. It was like she'd run out of Christmas mornings.

. . .

She woke at three pm, finally—with a headache and a dry throat. It was a Saturday she was very thankful for.

She watched the ceiling fan go; with listless half-open lashes curled over hazy green irises.

She'd never felt so out of balance. She was a shard of matter floating in space, senselessly and without control.

"_Rachel_."

She said her name sometimes, just to hurt herself. And she had these thoughts that cut her in half.

_Her life never stopped for me—mine never started for her. _

She used to be dry and level-headed—she can still remember it.

. . .

. . .

Quinn breathed in hard through her nose. Her heart pounded. Her calves burned. The rest of her was cold.

Her sneakers pounded the pavement—slick and a little icy.

She couldn't hear whatever blasted through her headphones. She made up mantras.

_I'm loyal to my secrets. I'm loyal to my bed. _

_I'm loyal to my mother, and my upbringing, and my head._

_I'm loyal to the books I've read._

There was a stitch in her midsection that burned painfully. Her breathing was out of control.

_I'm a cheater to my heart. I'm a cheater to my heart. I'm a cheater to my heart._

She slid—landed on her hands and knees. She sucked in air at a rapid pace, but nothing could satisfy her lungs or cool the burn in her body.

She looked around—she'd never felt so alone. Just her, and the icy road. Her, and her broken body. Her, and the dissonant crooning in her headphones.

_I've made myself so sick._

_I __wish I'd stayed— _

_asleep today. _

_I never thought this day would end._

_I never thought tonight could ever be—_

_this close to me._

. . .

. . .

Quinn walked her broken body around in circles. Her gym shorts and t-shirt were damp with sweat. She figured it must be getting late—the sky was tinting.

She noted that she wasn't at all hungry and it made her feel dead. She couldn't recall eating today, or the day before, or—

—she glanced swiftly (a bit confused) through the backdrop she'd stumbled into (her eyes had been fixed to the pavement for hours; tracking the blur).

Her mouth quirked into a sudden smirk; eyes flashing—green and self-deprecating.

_I always-always end up here._

She tried to stare at the building steadily; with daring and resolve. It was just that it was always so daunting.

_And I always-always-always—_

. . .

. . .

_It's just that I think there's something magical that I could say_—

She plugged the code into the elevator. Its light-bulb eyes blinked awake, flickering a little. It only stopped at two floors, and took approximately two minutes between each. Quinn watched its numbers—one and thirty-seven.

_If I were a gambler—_

She wiped at her brow. She felt suddenly very self-conscious. Everywhere she turned there was a reflective surface, and it made her nauseous.

. . .

She practically—at this point—had a Pavlovian response to the _'ding' _of Rachel's elevator. The sound jump-started her heart. It vibrated in her chest, painfully, but at least she knew then that she was still alive. The machine still functioned, though it was dusty.

She stepped through the doors—with eyes closed; trying to breathe. She positively loathed being in elevators. It felt like such an irreversible decision. The same with getting on planes, or trains, or buses—roller coasters, especially—taxis too, to an extent—

The number dinged off—_thirty-seven_.

_No, really. If I were one to gamble—_

. . .

She heard her headphones (though they were barely audible), tucked into her short's pocket. The sound steadied her—

_I make the shapes come much too close _

_I pull my eyes out,_

_hold my breath and wait _

_until I shake._

. . .

She stepped through the doors, to the hall. A faint chord in her memory was always struck when she walked through it—it smelled of peppermint, her father's den—she'd never liked it.

Rachel's apartment smelled of little white candles she lit—lilies, and cotton, and french vanilla. It felt like salvation in so many ways.

_But I'm an exile from here. I'm an exile._

So knocking on the door felt like an act of war.

. . .

Dark eyes met her—fringed with darker lashes, and framed by the sharp, derisive quirk of a brow.

"Santana."

"Quinn."

Santana paused, and leant easily on the doorframe. Her body blocked the room from view. She looked Quinn over, "The fucking _balls _you must have."

It was the sensation of walking up to the edge of a bridge, and staring down into the deep blue sea (swaying a little, towards it)—that's what settled in her stomach. She flexed her jaw, "I just want to speak to Rachel."

"That's cute. That's adorable, princess."

"Step aside."

Santana chuckled.

"I'd love to see you make me."

Quinn scoffed, and shook her head, "Where's _Rachel_?"

"Not here."

"I don't believe you," and she sighed, resentful of everything (herself, especially), "Step aside, Santana."

Santana shrugged, arms crossed, "You're such a brave little toaster, go on and make me then."

Quinn's brows rose, unimpressed, "You want to throw down?"

Santana licked her lips, "I actually just threw down with the wife a few hours ago, I'm a little tuckered out. But I appreciate the offer, _stud_. I would've _loved_ to be the girl that finally helped you solve that little impotency issue."

Quinn blushed, and noticed Santana's satisfied smirk. She rolled her eyes, "You're detestable." It was a soft whisper, very faint. It wilted from her lips.

Santana watched her seriously; derision waning; smirk sliding from her mouth, "And you need to go home, Quinn."

"Not until I see Rachel."

"Fuck off."

"Let me see Rachel."

"She's not _here_."

"Let me see Rachel."

Santana groaned, throwing her palms up.

"See these hands?—Well, they're not afraid to finger girls and they're not afraid to cut a bitch—so if I were you, I'd walk that pretty-nice-for-a-white-girl _ass _back to whatever awful loft you crawled from."

Quinn fixed her deadpan eyes on Santana's.

"Let me see _Rachel_."

"No, mami, sorry," Santana shook her head drolly, "Why don't you go sit at a Starbucks and type obnoxiously in sync with all the other wannabes, while you sip a no-foam latte for six hours?"

Quinn waited a beat. Her expression tenaciously blank.

"Please let me see Rachel."

Santana put her palm against her forehead, "Back off, Quinn. For fuck's _sake._"

Quinn's cheekbones hollowed—her jaw tensed tightly, and her eyes grew very bright, "Is she really not here? Or are you just—protecting her from—" she sighed, "Is she really not here?"

"Gee, ya _think_? I've only been saying it for a goddamned hour—_no_—she isn't fucking _here_," she watched as every bit of color on Quinn's face was replaced with white, and told her (as firm, but with a certain reluctant sympathy), "She's in LA. The last few tracks from her album are being produced over there, and she isn't coming back until it's done. Then she's playing a few shows, and doing a couple interviews. She won't be back in New York for a damned long time. She took the Bartender with her. Not that I have a fucking clue what's going on _there_ but—all the more reason for you to—"

"Shut _up_!"

Santana winced. She watched hazel eyes overflow with color. Raw amber—like the sky after a bomb drops, and everything turns to flames.

Quinn could scarcely control her tone or the shaking of her fists, "I can't believe that—little coward—that fucking—god—god, I can't _believe_ her."

"_You _can't—" Santana scoffed, "You had _months _to do something, and you didn't. So don't come around with your tail between your legs anymore. Whatever you had, or didn't have, or almost had—it's—it's just over, kid. It's over. Go home. I don't want to see you here—again—_ever—_because frankly I'm a hundred percent sure my best friend deserves someone better than _you_."

Quinn stared at her, through penetrating green slits. Santana never blinked.

"You're right," Quinn's voice was hoarse. She shouldn't have yelled like that, "I'm—sorry. I won't bother her or you or—anyone. Just—just don't tell her I stopped by or anything and—"

"I won't," Santana told her, "She doesn't need any false hopes from the likes of you."

Quinn watched her helplessly for seconds, before nodding slowly. She walked away.

. . .

. . .

She went home—running, with the song in her ears and made-up chants in her head.

_Just try to see in the dark._

_Just try to make it work._

_I'm an exile from here. I'm an exile from her. I'm an exile from here. I'm an exile from her. I'm an exile. I'm an exile. I'm an ex—_

"Ow."

Her knees were very badly bruised from the fall. She felt it every time the tendons flexed beneath her torn-up skin.

. . .

. . .

She bathed, and lied awake—on the awful little mattress in her awful little loft. She wanted to crawl from it again.

She couldn't stand it at all. She put on jeans—grabbed her keys and her mp3.

. . .

. . .

It wasn't a bar—it was a dance club.

All electric lights and no sign of romance anywhere. The music swelled ecstatically—awful and irredeemable. Quinn's head rested on her palm; her elbow rested on the bar. She glanced around listlessly, waiting for the vodka to hit. How awful and watered down and expensive it was, too.

She could've—in theory—gone to Myra's, where things were less awful, but _more so_, because although she wouldn't run into Ashley O'Malley or Rachel Berry, she'd run into the counter, and the chairs, and the bar-lights, and the jukebox, and goddamned Frank Sinatra.

The vodka hit. Melancholia speeds it up.

"Give me another," she told the young bartender, "A _double _this time since—or a triple. Or how about you put alcohol in it this time?"

He rolled his eyes.

"Sorry if it's rude," she told him, grinning stupidly, "It's probably company policy to fuck me over. I'll try—I'll try not to take it so personally."

He giggled a little. Her new drink was much better.

Green eyes swerved across the length of the bar. She tried hard to make herself feel like Ashley O'Malley or Santana Lopez. If they were here.

First, they would not feel like crying. They'd sip their drink without wincing at all. They wouldn't sit up so straight (she let her shoulders fall a little—casually).

They'd pick a pretty girl to smile at.

She took a deep breath. _Pretend you're not afraid to finger girls or cut bitches. Pretend you're debonair—or interesting. Just be someone else._

Her eyes settled on a lithe, young waif (sitting at a table—quiet and demure—whilst her friends chatted and laughed around her).

Quinn was enchanted by her. By how much she looked like Rachel. With eyes dark, and hair dark, and skin dark (a little more so than Rachel's—skin the color of the cover of Quinn's journal). Her curves were a little more languorous, a little less sensual (she was taller than Rachel, and seemed a tad slighter). However, the resemblance was vivid, and very present. Quinn watched her openly—eyes bright and wistful.

"I'll send her a drink on your behalf."

She turned to the bartender, who smiled at her.

"On the house and everything," he told her, "Since I _did _sorta stiff you."

She smirked back—instincts set on a 'no, please—you really don't have to, I'd die of embarrassment; it's not the Quinn Fabray way of doing things—it's much too bold and simple and it might get me somewhere in less than fifteen steps; what sort of diabolical plan is _that_?' She bit her lip. She thought of Ashley—in LA somewhere, with her long, careless arm wrapped around Rachel; leading her to record stores and cinemas. "Th-thanks. That'd be really—cool."

. . .

The girl watched the drink with wide doe eyes. They would occasionally glance up at Quinn's, for second-long moments, before looking away. Her friends giggled, and poked her shoulder, and waved coquettishly at Quinn.

Eventually the girl stood, uncertain—in high heels—and walked towards Quinn.

Quinn felt a weary, nauseous excitement settle in her stomach. She sipped her vodka.

The girl spoke, and sounded young and earnest, "Hi."

"Hi," Quinn told her, trying hard to keep her voice steady, "I'm Quinn Fabray."

She extended a hand, and the girl grabbed it with a giggle, "I'm Samantha Torres. But my friends call me, um—Sam the girl."

Quinn's lips quirked up, along with her brow, "It's very nice to meet you, Sam the girl."

They smiled, and looked around—both a little unsure. The music and the sound of people beat relentlessly into their heads.

"I guess we should dance a little."

Quinn nodded, "Yeah, that gun's to our heads, all right."

. . .

Sam the girl was a fine little dancer. Quinn kept a palm perched on her stomach—to feel it move. She kept her arms around Quinn's neck—and occasionally used her body as a ballast to grind against.

. . .

A half hour later—sweaty and a little out of breath, Sam asked her, "Should I leave with my friends or—?"

Quinn's hands gripped the curves of her lower back, "Stay and dance s'more. I'll take you home."

Sam watched her cautiously, eyes impossibly wide, "Promise I'll be safe."

Quinn's eyes (which had seconds ago held a reckless mirth consisting of various shades of green) turned properly solid, "I promise. I swear."

. . .

. . .

The club refused to close, and the bodies refused to stop, so they let up. They surrendered. They promptly giggled out. Sam's friends had glanced at them briefly an hour ago, then disappeared. They hadn't heard a thing from them.

"They, they went to meet up with some other friends at some house party that I didn't at all want to go to so—you're actually saving me from a cab ride home alone. And god knows _what _in this city."

She gave Quinn a look that made her feel just like a savior, and played with her jacket's lapels.

"I bet," Quinn giggled, "I bet your lashes must have a hell of a batting average, huh?"

Sam the girl laughed into her neck, "They've scored a few homeruns."

Quinn blushed at the pavement—ice kept melting into puddles of slush, "Your heels are going to get scuffed."

"It's okay. They're my friend's—they dressed me up for tonight."

Quinn twirled a finger around the ripples in the girl's soft brown hair, "Well, you look really pretty."

"Thank you," her full, pink lips curled into a grin.

They strolled together—Sam held onto her forearm like she might float away if she didn't. Quinn walked slowly, so the girl could keep a tight grip.

"I uh," she told her, "I've been listening to the same song on a loop all day. Do you want to share the earbuds? It's pretty sad and everything but—"

"Why don't you listen to another song?"

She fiddled with her i-pod, in her jacket pocket, "What?"

"If it's sad—just listen to another—you know, _song_."

Sam watched her like it was really simple. Quinn looked down into her eyes, and felt suddenly that the space between them was infinitesimal; insignificant—in the grand scheme of everything. Her eyes fluttered closed.

When Rachel kissed Quinn—her fingers closed around her neck, and her thumb stroked Quinn's jaw. Like Quinn were wonderful. And Quinn could feel the edges of her lips curl up (she swore she could) against her own. Sam the girl's pretty, pink lips didn't curve the same. Quinn's heart dipped morosely to her stomach. Her whole body felt betrayed.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled, and pulled away, "I—that's— I keep thinking about this girl I love, who hurt me—and how she might magically find out about this—just, immediately upon it happening, and crash into a million pieces the way _I_ did, when she left me—except not—_no_—the only one here who would break anything is me. I'm sort of callous. Anyway, I—I'm sorry. I'm only going to hurt myself, and you, and it's not fair—she probably wouldn't even care, even if she _did _know. And sex—maybe it can be—fucking _meaningless_—but I don't think it really works as a plot for revenge. I'll take you home, I just—"

Sam's long lashes collected droplets across their lengths. Quinn watched her brows curl up, and furrow—watched her begin to cry.

"Sam—no, I—I'm sorry—I'm sorry I led you on—you're—you're gorgeous—I swear, I just—"

"Shut up—shut _up_—" Sam rolled her eyes, and dabbed her fingertips across her cheeks (darkened with smudged mascara), "You—it's not—_you_. It's—I—my friends took me out to this _stupid club_, with a fake—with a fake ID. I—my girlfriend, _ex_-girlfriend, went to college—to UM—a month ago, and she—she cheated—a _week _into it, and I found out yesterday because the girl found me on facebook and messaged me about it. And I called her—I called her and she said, she said," Sam deepened her voice considerably "—'it was so inevitable it's almost understandable.' She _said _that. And that was it—no, 'I'm sorry' or—or _anything. _And I told my friends and they were all 'well, yeah' and then they wanted to take me to this _awful _gay club and they gave me Sandy's sister's ID, and then—and then you bought me that drink and I thought you seemed so nice—and older—and not as stupid as _Chrissy_—"

Quinn watched her wonderingly, eyes wide—her facial expression frozen for moments now, "Exactly how—old are you?"

Sam scoffed, and threw a contemptible look Quinn's way, "How come every girl I meet is an asshole?"

Quinn sighed, and wrapped her arms carefully around the girl, "It's all right."

She sobbed into her t-shirt, "No it's not—no it's _not_. She _promised _she wouldn't. She gave me this ring, and I wore it every day."

Quinn shut up and let her cry. Her jacket's lapels, shirt, and neck were soaked with tears and mascara stains. She rubbed a palm along the planes of Sam's back.

The girl eventually stopped shaking—and nuzzled into Quinn's shirt with a final sigh.

"Do you want to ride a taxi?"

The girl shook her head.

"If I start walking, will you tell me what streets go to your house?"

She nodded.

Quinn walked her along slowly—with a protective arm around her shoulders.

"Quinn?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm eighteen," she whispered demurely, "I'm a senior. I'm sorry I lied or whatever."

Quinn shrugged, "Serves me right for trying to be someone else too."

Sam dipped her forehead into the crook of Quinn's neck, "Well I'm glad I met _you _and not—someone else."

Quinn smirked derisively, "Yeah—Ashley O'Malley would've found a way to fuck you. And Santana Lopez would've left you crying three blocks back."

Sam the girl kissed her cheek, "Well I'm glad it was Quinn Fabray that found me then."

. . .

. . .

_In LA_

Ashley kept a protective arm around her wherever they went—shielding Rachel from the paps; keeping her nestled within the crook of her elbow. There were maybe a dozen photographs of them in magazines, wherein Ashley was looking directly into the camera lens—brows curled in annoyance and anger. Rachel thought she looked rather cute.

She wondered what it would've been like to have asked Quinn to come here. If the girl would've taken the time off. If she would've enjoyed it.

Probably not. This city was riddled with cameras.

She fantasized about it sometimes, though.

Quinn was the perfect height to hold her. Ash was so tall, sometimes it felt like she was floating away. Quinn was close enough to be a _felt_, constant presence. Rachel still had dreams about her—where the girl would hold her waist tightly in public, and Rachel could hide her face in the girl's shoulder. Quinn's brow would quirk at the cameras, and it would crack all their lenses. The raggedy paparazzi would all scatter away, their hearts would swell, and they'd all get better hobbies.

She smiled sadly up at Ashley, "She really brought flowers?"

Ashley swallowed hard, "Yeah."

"Were they pretty?"

"They were beautiful."

. . .

. . .


	10. Time is just a Pink Floyd song

. . .

Chapter 10: Time is just a Pink Floyd song.

. . .

NY

. . .

_I remember her like a season—_

_one that might never happen again._

_It'll never be winter again._

_The curls in her hair will never again beckon me forward._

_It will never be that same temperature,_

_nor sunsets that particular hue_

_(the color they were _

_when we watched them,_

_lying on the rooftop of your car)._

_Now I sit in a red park bench,_

_alone, and watch them._

_The clouds_

_unfurl to reveal_

_this and that tint of grey. _

_(I didn't know I'd be colorblind without you_

_on top of hopeless_

_on top of cold_

_on top of despondent) . _

_I let my legs loll—it's limbo—_

_and all the world is still now._

_I think about how _

_we lost everything to time _

_and its constant need to change _

_the rhythm of everything._

_And how she understands it all so well_

_like the bastard never skipped a beat. _

_And how it was she who won the war _

_against my inability to sway _

_with the seasons._

Quinn thought it a little melodramatic and drew crosses on the page's corners. She turned the crosses into kites and watched them for minutes. They didn't swirl off the page or anything.

Time, she'd lost track of completely; because of this sudden feud she had with it. She'd thrown away her calendar that morning. She'd placed her grandfather's watch in a drawer. She didn't mourn its absence. And she did her best to ignore Rachel's.

She felt her heart beat, once—painfully. She'd turned Rachel's name into something. She didn't quite know what but whenever she thought of it, or let its consonance wrap around her lips her heart beat, once—painfully.

"Rachel, Rachel, Rachel," she breathed out, rapidly. She could kill herself this way.

She picked at her sweater's hem. It was and wasn't winter.

. . .

. . .

She was late for work.

Her boss didn't appreciate her cavalier shrug about it, "Time's just a Pink Floyd song, Stella Angelica Gray."

"You're on the thin ice, Lucy Quinn Fabray."

"That's," Quinn nearly chuckled, "That was pretty good."

. . .

. . .

She bent against the counter for hours. Intermittently (at very sparse intervals), she'd make a sale.

_If I was going to go into retail, I should've tried for any other commodity, really._

Mostly people lounged on the floor and read, and Stella let them, while Quinn watched on with a bored, kittenish expression (eyes a rusty brown).

"Get that sour look off your face, please," Stella said, "They probably can't afford them. They're mostly twenty."

Quinn's brows peaked, "Well they're the nicest dressed ascetics _I've_ ever seen. Christ's sake. They can afford _Topman_ prices but a goddamn _paperback _is too far beyond their means?"

Stella's dark eyes rolled, "Sourpuss. Angst-y intellectual."

"Seventy-dollar-skinny-jeans-wearing faux-hippie-wannabe sympathizer."

Stella popped her tongue against the roof of her mouth.

"Sometimes I think you aren't so smart after all. You're just crafty with the adjectives."

"I haven't had to be smart in so long, there's honestly no way to tell."

Stella threw up her hands, "I'll be in the back office. You're _stressing _me! It took you two minutes and a half, brat, congrats."

Quinn watched her go, the slightest tug of a smile on her lips. Stella was thirty-six, and besides a few silver lines across her jet black bangs she looked very youthful. Her eyes twinkled when she looked at you. She was five two, and girlishly thin (sundresses hung languidly off her frame), but her eyes and her smile made her seem magnificently big.

Quinn vaguely perceived her as an older sister she was constantly trying to impress. It was partly sub-conscious. And if she weren't so brilliant at keeping people at arm's length perhaps the dynamic wouldn't be all in her head.

She spent too much time there.

She mostly felt as if she lived in a parallel universe of her own making. Eyes open, nodding off until the scenery seemed inconsequential. Her lashes would flutter awake—she'd be back in that time between night and morning (days and days and days ago), face buried in the nape of Rachel's neck—positive she'd found heaven there (something more than lavender perfume and heady pheromones). She laid warm kisses over fine hair—_something much, much more._

Her heart beat, once—painfully.

_Human minds are funny, _she thought, abstractly, with a bit lip, _We think up inventions for things our brains can do, unwittingly. Time machines?— You're trapped in one._

"Pardon?"

Her eyelids flickered up—gold irises. There was a young gentleman in front of her, with an armful of books. He was six two—long and narrow like an old staircase; the type that always led to attics.

If she climbed him—she was instantaneously sure—she'd find cluttered, dusty boxes filled with treasure.

"Sorry sir ," she grabbed the books from his hands, "Did you find everything you were looking for?"

He grinned down at her, "And then some."

Quinn surveyed the titles as she slid barcodes across lasers—various works on queer and feminist theory. Mostly anthologies. It seemed a little dry but many piqued her interest.

Her willowy fingers traced the lines of bell hooks' name—chords in her memory were plucked, "I never read this one. Is it good?"

She looked up at his big, dark eyes. He seemed a tad surprised. His gaze lingered, predictably, on the small, golden cross lain in the center of her sternum.

"Yes. They _all _are."

She nodded, "They are. I—I minored in women's studies and I've read—at least in part—every book you're taking home. That'll be 77. 83—wow, you know we—we have some of these used, if you want to—"

"Used books are distracting to me," he passed her his card and driver's license, "Credit, please—I, I always read whatever the previous owners scribbled on the margins, and I spend _forever_ trying to figure out why a certain sentence is highlighted. Besides which—these—I volunteer at a women's shelter—and these are going to be gifts."

She watched his smiling jaw for seconds, as the receipts printed. "I need you to sign one of these."

"Certainly."

Quinn watched him bend over the receipt, slightly fascinated by the svelte curve of his hand; his neat hand-writing.

She was suddenly positive.

"Would you like to get a coffee?" She asked him. He seemed unsure; humming against a bit lip. Quinn amended the offer, "Platonic—platonic coffee."

His ever-present grin widened, and his brows rose conspiratorially, "Platonic coffee…between two gays?"

She blushed and nodded.

"Sounds like a blast," a large hand was extended to her, "I'm Sloan Villanueva."

"I'm Quinn Fabray."

They shook on their names—their introduction solidified in the space where their palms met.

"I'll be out of here by six—we can—" She started, and watched his eyes broaden.

He seized the book she hadn't read, and flipped its cover. He grabbed her pen and wrote his number on the right corner of the first page, "Here—consider it a gift. And call me—when you—I don't live very far—"

She watched him walk backwards, away—with his plastic bag brimming with literature, and his easygoing smile, and his kind wave.

Her palm extended towards him, and she waved back.

. . .

. . .

Promptly at six, she called him.

They found a café they'd never been to that served Greek coffee and that was fine by them.

Sloan spilled some on the tabletop and watched the three black dots; overwhelmed by all the little creatures they attracted "I think ants are getting at my coffee."

"That's no good," Quinn smirked, "The last thing we need is ants strung out on caffeine and wreaking havoc all over New York."

He laughed and said, "No picnic will be left untarnished."

He understood her humor, and Quinn liked his.

"But it's winter—no one has picnics in—"

"Where _are _you?" He slit his eyes, "We're on the tip of spring. Just _passed_ the edge of winter."

"Oh—you're right."

While Sloan spoke, he picked at a pastry he'd ordered (but hadn't had much of an appetite for) with a fork, "So what do you do—outside of work?"

"I like to read and write."

"That's nice," he told her, "But it's not—we both know it's not taking up your every free moment. And if it is—God help you."

She smiled into her palm—but somehow knew her eyes had given her away. It was evident by his smile.

"Fine," she said, "I—I get—occasionally bored and—go to a bar or—once, recently, I went to a club and I'll never do _that _again. I wound up—" She smiled derisively, and let the thought go.

He made a noise of disgust—stuck out his tongue and all, "Clubs are fake places people go to, for fake memories, with people they don't love or know just to—you know—have something to say when they go back to the real places in their lives. They say things like 'look how happy I am—I went clubbing—I succeeded at getting drunk—I danced and I fucked—I'm _so happy'_—it's everything that saddens me about being young and living here."

She sighed, in relief, over the way he'd put something she didn't have the energy to go into herself, "Exactly."

"You aren't the type."

"I am," she said, "I'm lonely."

It was far too honest. She felt like crying suddenly. The brightest moments of honesty in her life had always exploded from her—after being held, for too long, under the pressure of her tongue against her teeth. This was soft, and subtle. She stared at him wonderingly for seconds afterwards. He only nodded.

"I see that," he told her, "But you're doing it all wrong. You—aren't some loser—you're a wayward girl with a bad case of the doldrums. Clubs and bars will just confuse you worse."

"So where…?"

"Where what?"

She bit her lip. She blinked, and felt that her eyes were wet beneath her lashes, "Where do I go to meet people like…us?"

His brows rose, "I dunno. We're a little hard to find."

. . .

_LA_

. . .

Rachel rolled her eyes.

She said her name was Kerry McDaniel.

Her father was blah blah.

Her mother starred in blah blah blah.

Ashley was sat by the bar. Pretty far away. Long frame slung over a diminutive blonde—smiling red lips at her. Occasionally she'd turn to her and Kerry—curl her brows in their direction.

Rachel received many texts: _you good? everything all right? she getting handsy? i've kicked bigger asses lemme at 'er._

She turned to Ashley (who was smirking brazenly back at her) and mouthed _stop_. Ashley spiked a brow.

Rachel had to look away (with a shake of the head).

She focused on the girl stirring a gin and tonic in front of her. She liked her, superficially.

She liked the scar Kerry had just below her left brow. And her ash-blonde hair. And her pale green eyes. But mostly—the curves and tendons of her tattooed arms. She looked strong. Rachel liked seeing ink over muscle—colorful and bright.

"What's your favorite poem?" Kerry asked her.

She mostly asked Rachel what her favorite this or that was. So far it'd been: color, food, song, and book. Rachel toyed around with the idea of quizzing her after the night was through.

"Currently—Sexton's _the starry night_," Rachel sighed a little, "Do you know it?"

Kerry nodded, "I've never understood it."

"What's there to—?" Rachel's brow furled up; a little frustrated, "How do you _feel_—when you watch that painting?"

"Disconcerted."

The answer caused a surge of silence. Rachel grew a little bored. She thought this girl would be exciting.

Kerry gripped Rachel's waist with her palms—the action was sudden, swift, as if born from pure desperation. She slurred softly, "Do you like me?"

Rachel watched her slowly—heart thudding a little at her outburst, "I like _fucking_."

She looked down at her own waist; Kerry's hands engulfed it. She noticed two tattoos she hadn't really _seen _before then. On the bases of the fingers on Kerry's right hand, the word "take" had been spelled out, in wild script. On her left, "have." Rachel liked the imagery. 

From her peripheral, she spotted Ashley—long limbs approaching them quickly; stiff and tense.

She grabbed Kerry's wrists, and dropped her arms away from her body, "Uh oh. My bodyguard's coming—act like you weren't just getting handsy."

"What?"

Ashley crashed into their space, stepping between them—she imposed her height on Kerry (who was perhaps 5'5"), staring her down, brows curled into a furrowed forehead, "Everything cool here? What's going on? We getting handsy now, Stranger-Girl? Some nerve, putting hands on my friend. Some real—"

"Oh _God_."

"—fucking balls you got there."

Rachel grabbed Ash's arm, spun her around, and dragged her to a corner. She stood on her tip toes, and stabbed a finger against her shoulder, "Big. Crazy. Jerk."

"I'm just doing my job!"

"_Which is_—?"

Ruddy brown eyes were primal, and honest, "Make sure my girl doesn't do dumb things in LA. Like _that _dumb thing right _there_," she nodded cursorily in Kerry's direction, "Who happens to resemble—very worryingly resemble—this pretty young thing you dumped back in _New York_—"

"Shut up," Rachel's voice was quiet, and dark, "She doesn't look a thing like—"

"Like a _dyke-y_, washed-out, salt-air-scented version of—yes—and I bet, less intelligent—"

Ashley broke off suddenly, at the look in big doe eyes, "_Fine_—what I'm saying is, this is part of my specific… duty to you."

Rachel snorted—her eyes flickered wryly, "Cock-blocking me is _not—_"

Ashley's heart sank, and very nearly broke on impact, "Are you saying you really, and truly, and soberly, want to fuck that girl?"

Rachel shrugged, "I like her tattoos."

Ashley nodded, "They're pretty cool."

"Good—so—you're calm?" Rachel watched her—her face bore a great resemblance to James Dean's.

"I've been subdued. By your consent. Not by—the rather irreverent point you just made about some awful girl's tattoo artist's talents and how they just got the kid laid, stupidly."

Rachel giggled. She reached up and chastely kissed red lips.

. . .

. . .

The night ended with Rachel watching her nails rake down Kerry's back—down her stupid angel-wings tattoo. She scratched her up something awful—pink lines mottled with red, liquid speckles.

Her eyes flickered downward. Her clitoris peaked out from within its hood—raw, and red—twisted between an _A _and a _K_. She liked the image—but it didn't make her feel much of anything. Kerry was no walking _starry night_. Her tattoo artist was no Van Gogh.

And this was not how Rachel wanted to die.

. . .

. . .

a/n: I don't usually do these—but I'm aware that this chapter might seem really strange. That's because this chapter is purely transitory, and sort of very necessary. Quinn has met her best friend—he'll help her change and grow and inspire her courage. Rachel has met someone who will do the opposite. I won't spoil you more, but I sorta want to. I don't like being very obvious in the narrative (because it fucks up the artistry)—so, I'll remind you _now _about like, the happy ending and all that jazz.


	11. I've never been any woman's girlfriend

Chapter 11: I've never been any woman's girlfriend.

. . .

_LA_

. . .

_Let's run the facts through the most logical part of the mess in my head—_

Rachel sighed.

The storm inside her brow kept turning.

She took in her scenery and had the sudden, abstract realization that money flew out of her life in a hazy, turbulent wind—and it came in just the same—and she hasn't—for years—thought much about it; as long as she maintained the ability to afford grandiose balconies with carefully placed, post-modernist lounge chairs. They were usually—like the one she was nestled in—a deep burgundy.

Her favorite color. Much deeper than the pastel pinks she'd favored in high school.

_I was a half-empty crayola box. Everything about me was light and soft._

Kerry was asleep in her bed (the bitter wind reminded her).

Rachel had left her there several hours ago, naked and clutching sheets—and counted three tattoos she hadn't seen— before turning away.

She didn't know what to do about the pretty little stranger, when she woke. Rachel hoped she'd sleep for many more hours. Or maybe cease to exist there—wake up on the bed of some much nicer girl.

The thought turned her mood—she kept getting sadder the earlier it got.

(It was five in the morning—a tepid, stained-glass sunrise cracked to reveal blue-grey daylight underneath. Rachel liked LA—to an extent—and only at times like these).

"My whole life—"

Her head turned in a flash—toward the drowsy, young voice. Her eyes looked up, widely, at Ashley's.

The girl crossed her long, pale arms—leant against the frame of the sliding glass partition between the living room and balcony (half-way open now).

"My whole life, I've had an endless amount of friends…or, you know, people that surrounded me anyway—but I've never had one that I loved, before you, Rachel."

"Ash—"

Ashley tried on a half-hearted smile before red lips sunk into a pout, "It just hurts me."

"What?"

"To know you're so despondent."

Rachel shook her head.

Ashley bit her lip, "Don't lie to me—c'mon."

Rachel heard herself say (very mechanically, with desultory emphasis), "I'm _fine_." She realized she'd been saying it so much in her head, it sounded stale once said aloud.

She smiled still, without regard to honesty, "I promise—stop worrying about it—it's—everything is great, all right? Everything is Los Angeles. I hardly _think _about the kid. _You _talk about her more than _I _ever have. Maybe _you're _the lovesick puppy."

Ashley dropped her arms from her chest (with her soft, languid energy), and leant into the balcony (feet still firmly on the living room's hardwood), she nearly whispered, "Good actress. Bad liar. Bad friend too, for trying to fool me. You want me not to feel how hurt you are?—close your eyes when you talk to me."

"_God—_don't make me out to be so _selfless_, Ash" Rachel scoffed unhappily; eyes focused intently on Ashley's, "Do I seem that way to you?"

Ashley bit down on her teeth—her jaw twitched, "I know you're not sparing my feelings. You're sparing your ego. _Obviously._ And I know you self-analyze worse than a trust-fund-y undergrad with no day job so—I know you know it too."

"I _know _you know I know. I just don't fucking care. Because it doesn't _matter. _Whether you care or don't—everything stays the fucking same. It's not a dance competition where practice, and patience, and devotion mean _shit_—it's love. It's rigged, so—_fuck _it."

Ashley licked her lips—pouty now; sad and angry.

"Brat."

"Punk."

Ashley sighed in her direction—ruddy brows curled toward each other.

"I'm leaving, little miss fine-now. Hope you're fucking right, ya know."

Rachel watched her walk away (faded grey sweats, loose fitting t-shirt, long limbs, and everything that felt like home here). The sky was pale blue. Rachel could see it clearer than she'd ever wanted to.

Her heart seized abruptly, and she began to cry. It was a soft whine; a gasp, "Ash."

Ashley turned slowly, steadily, and caught her eyes. Rachel remembered going to the zoo, as a child, with her fathers, and watching the falcons. Their feathers would change color in the sunlight. Ashley's eyes were the same sort of brown. Light, and alive.

"Don't _go_."

Ashley fell forward—the way a wave rolls towards the shore; in a sudden, possessive surge. She landed on her knees in front of Rachel, and crossed her arms around the girl's little midsection.

"I love you, Rachel," she spoke softly—nearly mouthing out the words, "In this easy, thoughtless way that—I haven't been able to love a friend the way I love you since I was a really little kid. I _adore _you. I want to give you all my best baseball cards, all right? And show you my gravity racer. And my favorite place to hide. And draw up shoddy blueprints to our treehouse-that-never-happens. _I_—_love_—_you_."

Rachel's eyes held onto Ashley's mouth—quirked up in a smile that seemed so suddenly familiar. She had to let her know, "You're my parachute."

Ashley kept her arms around her. Warm, and steady, and strong. Somehow, she always knew when to be quiet. Most women she'd known would say it was her most charming quality.

Rachel was thrice-blessed with that voice, and those eyes, and those legs—but she'd never possessed the quality; never known when to just be silent. It'd done her in before (and would, again and again).

She breathed in a bit, the cold morning air, "If Quinn were here she'd make up little poems. And she'd give them to me. And she'd fall asleep much too quickly. With her face against this specific spot on the back of my neck. She—does that."

Ashley watched her— little red mouth closed, and lovely.

Rachel stared up at the sky—cluttered with swirling white clouds—she felt at once wonderful and terrible about everything and everyone, "I've always thought it was so strange the way Quinn liked to look up and see empty space. It's like she's seeking some confirmation of—her own stupid loneliness. I'm the opposite. I need to see the—whole, ragged mess. I need to know I'm not alone. I need to be in New York—right up against the world, or directly above it—like a beacon or—or something. A star, I guess—for the sake of continuity."

Brown eyes flickered to Ashley's lips. She took a long breath, "Sometimes I look at you and I feel like you've been there for years."

Ash wiped her brow with her forearm, before looking down at Rachel with clear, honest eyes, "That's because I'm your friend."

Rachel's heart broke at the look on her face. It was soft, and sincere. The truth crawled up then, unwittingly, from her stomach—it was curt, and impassive, "I've never been a woman's girlfriend. I've never had a girl hold my hand wherever we went."

Ashley seemed, to Rachel, to subside a little—or perhaps it was a trick of her peripheral vision. Rachel's eyeline was aimed, again, on the sky. It was easier to latch onto the detached haze of pale nearly-grey blue than Ashley's kind, open expression.

She took a shaky breath.

"And I'm never going to _be _Mrs. Rachel Barbra Fabray—or, or O'Malley—or _McDaniel_—I'll…never have a cute little Irish name. Or fair-haired babies to sing _Danny Boy_ to. Or _any_thing except my career and the string of nameless, mindless, violent fucks I leave behind."

She was aware that her voice had gotten a tad shrill. Her eyes flickered to Ashley's mouth—closed still, and still so lovely.

She felt the sting of tears behind her eyes.

"That's it. I'm not the sort of girl that women turn into…a girlfriend. I don't get to latch on to their arms…or watch them open doors—sort of nervous, or _shy_, or—however they get when they're smitten. I get to be the…constant thing they turn into a friend. Or the mistake they made once. Or the thing that tore them apart. I don't know what I am to _Quinn,_" the name was a sad sigh, "I suppose I hope I'm—the thing that pushed her forward…into anywhere else. Because I'm—I'm _stuck_. And I think it's the worst thing to be. I can only feel things through the characters I play. I can only smile in front of cameras. I don't know how I got to be this way but—I'm pretty sure I'm unlovable."

Ashley bit the flesh inside her cheek. She watched Rachel's eyes close; tears on her dark lashes.

"But I just want to be that—once—for someone. And Quinn—could never—she wouldn't even hold my hand across a _street_—she never—" Rachel broke off with a bit lip, and a small gasp, "At my best I feel like I really deserve love. Because I _have _it, to give. But it keeps not happening. It gets close—and turns its head at the very last moment. And there's this sinking feeling in my chest that it leaves—and this sharp loneliness and numbness everywhere else. So I guess I don't. And I guess you can't have _everything_."

Ashley's arms tightened around her. Rachel buried her face into a long, pale neck. She felt the girl's pulse beat beneath her brow—a steady percussion. Her heart fell into the same, dull rhythm.

"Ash, why can't we just get married? You and I. It would make things so simple, and more organized. Plus, I think we'd be pretty happy. We'd be good to each other. I'd always make you breakfast. And the darkest coffee. I'd buy you nicer clothes. And I'd have your kids. I'd want them to be Jewish, and I'd want them to be vegan—but you can teach them about whatever you believe in _also—"_

Ashley had been steadily shaking her head for seconds—slowly, with a partly open mouth.

Rachel lifted her heavy head to watch her—her brows knit, "Why _not_?"

"It just doesn't seem funny," Ashley's eyes flickered off, to a spot above them, "To wind up married to a girl better than me, who's still in love with another girl—also better than me. It seems too likely a scenario to joke about."

Rachel cupped Ashley's jaw; turned her head so they were watching each other's eyes. Two shades of brown—distinct but Rachel noted that something about them seemed the same.

Ashley's jaw twitched beneath her palm, "I've never been any woman's girlfriend either. I've always been—sort of a backdrop, or an event, or a transitive period heretofore referred to as a phase. Or, like with you, I was just something else. Just someone else. For the pleasure of forgetting or to incite jealousy. I've been tagged in so many girls' facebook posts and—subsequently—been vehemently chased by so many ex-girlfriends it's—actually it's just sort of really pathetic."

Light brown eyes grew lighter—wet now, "I just wonder sometimes—what it's like to be the one. I mean, everyone deserves happiness, and everyone deserves love—but I've never gotten to feel it and that—"

She was cut off, by a sudden kiss to her cheek. _Warm_, and soft.

"I love you, Ash. I'm sorry I ever used you, but I'm glad I met you," Rachel's thumb rubbed circles on Ashley's cheek; swirling around little freckles, "You're my best friend. I mean—I, I _love _San and Brit. I do. But it's a little hard to be around them while they talk about wedding planners, and in-vitro fertilization as I—meander through all the same lonely bars and get fucked by all the same lonely girls. You understand me. And you don't care about the parts of me that are cliché, or melodramatic, or just sound silly. You love me back—without long unnecessary lectures, or judgment. And that—incites impromptu, slightly insensitive marriage proposals."

Ashley laughed. Her eyes were wet—shining sadly and happily in equal parts. She turned her head, and kissed Rachel's palm.

. . .

NY

. . .

_I love Sloan and his big lashes. His designer shades, and the dearth of his chest. His bony arms, and intellectual forehead. His long-for-a-boy brown hair. His winsome smile._

She watched him through one squinted eye. His profile. He was sat directly in front of the sun. It was setting. Falling into California.

"It's like this dreamy time in my life—I can't really put a quantitative figure on the like, like the—you know, _timeframe _or whatever. It's just—Rachel. The time in my life when I had her. And it encapsulates a lot more than 'from this date to this date' it's like—'my Rachel days.' And they're gone now. Whatever. It's fine. I need to be over it. It's just that every time a girl stands on her tip toes I have to try really, really hard to hold my reaction."

He smiled a little—but it was a half-hearted joke, and they both knew it.

"But I guess, yes—the short answer is: I loved a girl once."

He nodded slowly, "And she was one of my favorite renditions of Éponine. God, but you don't do _anything _half-assed do you, Quinn Fabray?"

She rolled her eyes, beneath dark sunglasses—she felt her lashes flick against the lenses, "It's—actually yeah. I really did. I didn't try at all, with her. I was _stultified_, which is the dumbest thing to be when love confronts you. Because it doesn't deal with cowards, you know. It turns away. And I'm _still _not—you know my mom called the other day—"

"Quinn," he sighed gently, "It's not going to be like 'Hey mom—oh today?—usual; work, brunch with friends, hot gay sex, yada-yada-yada'—so, stop expecting this big burst of sudden—_outness_. It's something you have to plan—especially when it comes to friends and families. Until eventually, everyone that matters knows. And then you're only ever coming out to strangers, which can still be scary sometimes in certain environments but more or less it's—'Yeah so? All right, _fuck off_'—or well, I'm born and raised in Brooklyn. You're from Ohio so it probably goes—'Pardon my candor ma'am but your ignorance offends me. I turn my cheek at you!'"

His hands gripped his ribs as he giggled. He had a certain smile that was singularly boyish, and popped up at times like these. Whenever he stopped trying to be so smart.

She tugged the tip of her cross necklace—where Jesus' legs would be dangling if she were catholic.

She closed her eyes, and thought about the things he'd said.

. . .

It was very early morning and she'd gotten little sleep.

She paced the shadows around the front of the shop. In all honesty—she hadn't felt alive like this in a very long time. Her empty stomach turned—she was nervous now, and had felt only numbness for so long that it seemed like an awakening. Like she was feeling it for the first time, and almost couldn't place it.

Her heart beat very hard—giddy, manic. Its beats these past months had all been deliberate, and slow—weary with the tediousness of keeping the machine up and running.

"Quinn Fabray is _early_ for work," Stella's voice seemed much too comforting for Quinn just then; too normal, too dry and sarcastic and Stella-esque, "Did the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse drop you off?"

Quinn swallowed, "I have to tell you something."

Stella ran a hand through her bangs—grey and black blending into each other, like a thunderstorm, "There aren't any bodies hidden under our floorboards are there?"

"What?"

Stella's pale, sinewy shoulders shrugged beneath the thin straps of her sundress, "I have theories about you, Fabray. Likely scenarios that all start with: _I have to tell you something._"

Quinn shook her head, "But your instinctual, _initial_—I'm a serial killer? That's option _one_?"

"Have you _met _you?" Stella giggled, "I would've—if it makes a difference—I would've hid you. You know, from the investigators."

Quinn just scoffed. She felt sick suddenly—because Stella was smiling easily, and her sweet countenance was not turning into her mother's face, or her father's, or her preacher's. She was Stella still. Soft and easy.

"I'm—you're my friend. And I—I know I'm difficult to get to know and everything. But you're…one of two friends I have. One of two people who save me every day. And you're my boss too. But it still feels wrong to keep so much to myself. And no— I don't think you'd care—but it's still a little hard to say. So keep that in mind when you—"

"Collectively Quinn," Stella smirked kindly, "That's more than you've ever said to me. And also—probably the least you've ever _actually _said. Content-wise."

"I know," Quinn sighed—smiling sadly; a tad exasperated. She reached for her necklace—gripped it 'til the tip of the cross bit the very center of her palm. It felt sort of good. The pain steadied her. Endorphins chased her headache away, "I don't why this is so hard. It's just you."

"It is," Stella whispered, "So spit it out, kiddo. Because I love you. Before, now, and after—no matter _what _it is."

Quinn swallowed the air. It was a little chilly and hit her lungs just right. The words, "I'm gay" barely pierced the stillness. It seemed almost too succinct a statement, after the fact.

Stella wrapped her arms around her. Quinn rested her mouth and nose on the crown of her head. She could taste her perfume. It was subtle and sweet.

"I know, Quinn."

"What?" It was a wearily incredulous sigh. Almost child-like.

"_Well_," Stella's voice was happy, and light—it spread warmth to Quinn's cheeks, "Some of our _clientele—_the uh, the fairer sex, that arrives at our quaint locale to peruse our selection of books might happen to find _themselves_—"

"Oh _God—_"

"Being perused by _you_. The quirky, gay, clerk with a heart of gold…and hot buns too—"

"Can I call out sick? I'm currently going through something _very_ traumatic."

"—Well they're your type, Quinn, and you can't help it. But the _obviousness _is impossible to ignore. Especially what with my above-average IQ and natural intuitiveness. The fact is: you got caught. You got caught eye-caressing the ladies. And I waited you out. And we're here now. To the point where I get to embarrass you in front of potential girlfriends. Today—is going to be _interesting_ for you."

"Please. No. I—I take it back. There's bodies. In the floorboards," Quinn nodded hastily, "Dozens."

"The only _bodies _you're a danger to are—brunettes?" Stella watched Quinn's eyes go large, "About five two. Lithe—but they have to have an _ass, _right?"

"I hate you, Stella Gray."

"I love you too, _sourpuss._"

They smiled at each other, "Do you want to get coffee? And open late?"

Quinn nodded.

. . .

. . .

Long A/N:

Ywg!Rachel is my favorite thing. So in this chapter, I wanted to open up her head for you. I know she's messed up (not because she enjoys sex—but because she uses it to deny herself happiness). It's not a symptom of "slut-dom." I'm a better storyteller than that. It's a symptom of her insecurities regarding love and steady relationships. It's a symptom of regressing to the things she _knows _she can't fuck up—things that are easy, and uncomplicated. Rachel wants love, the way Rachel wants everything, almost-obsessively. But love isn't a goal you can put on a list and accomplish by waking early and getting on the elliptical every morning. It's messy, and uncontrollable, and hurtful sometimes. And at this point—after things fell apart with Quinn—she's scared to go after it, distrustful of it, and weary of it. It's what happens when you fall in love with someone who cannot give themselves to you (in Quinn's case, because she was/is closeted and was/is sort of petrified about her sexuality). Rachel got burned. We're in the aftermath of the girl she loves leaping off her mid-orgasm while mumbling "I can't." It's not going to be a pretty fall. Nobody recovers from heart-break _gracefully_. Especially given that Rachel has _never _been lucky in love.

So there's that. I don't think I have to explain Quinn's own heart-breaks and dilemmas since most of you have expressed empathy for her already.

It's going to be a pretty dramatic story—not gonna lie, I like dramatics. And nobody in the story is perfect. Except Stella.


	12. Pheromones that made her drowsy

a/n: this picks up immediately after the last chapter.

. . .

Chapter 12: Pheromones that made her drowsy.

. . .

NY

. . .

Time passes anyway, whether you believe in it or not.

When the thought struck Quinn, it made her smile. Time passes anyway.

You can lie awake for days, and the days will still pass, for you, and for everyone. And they'll end, for you, and for everyone.

You can let the slow crawl of time slither over you in a lonely haze. Or you can engage in myriad manias. But it passes the same way, and it meets the same end.

So, if the time will pass anyway, she found she'd rather spend it like this: walking along with Stella through golden streets, on a caffeine high, laughing and not caring that the store was still closed and it was nearing nine in the morning.

"You have no idea—the weight I've been under."

Stella threw an arm over Quinn's shoulders and squeezed her to her body (Quinn's taller frame had to bend, like a palm tree in a hurricane).

"I hope you're better now, Quinn. I hope you feel even a little better."

Quinn smiled, "I feel great, somehow."

. . .

_LA_

. . .

In the end, Rachel had gone back to her bed—lied next to the warm, alien body against its backdrop.

When Kerry woke, her hands grasped at Rachel like magnets—suddenly, entirely—from her hip bones, to her waist, to the planes of her back, and up, to hide themselves in her hair like pale ghosts swirling through a dark mansion.

Rachel traced the winding Chinese dragon that swirled down Kerry's left forearm—a smear of green and amber. She pushed the arm away.

"What's there to get?—I need you to not kiss my hair."

Kerry pouted.

"I still don't get it."

Rachel watched her, feeling suddenly moody. The shadows and the shape of Kerry's brow reminded her very suddenly of Finn Hudson. She took it as an omen.

"Just _don't_. Just—get off me, _please_."

She blinked, and her lashes looked like butterfly wings. They fluttered against her cheek, but they couldn't fly. Kerry sighed at the sight.

"I'll do whatever you want, Rach. I just want to be kept around."

Rachel swallowed—her mouth was dry. She wished she'd stayed in the balcony, ignoring this, for at least a few more hours.

"I have an infinite amount of things to do while I'm here, Kerry, the _least _of which is ensuring your place in my life. It's also far too early to say things like that."

"Far too early in our rela—"

"—Far too early in the fucking _morning_! For the love of Moses, you're going to give me a heart attack."

Her eyes fluttered away from pale green eyes. Away from their simple, naïve attention. She dragged a hand slowly down her own cheek. Her mood was her sanctuary. She imagined herself perched on the highest bough of the tallest tree, watching the formless clouds swirl by. Beneath her nothing moved. She sometimes felt like it was a lie that the Earth moved at all. It seemed so stagnant.

"You know what I hate the most about indie movies?"

Kerry gaped, "The—"

"They're so _static_. They—nothing ever happens. They start and end the same. It's too close to…life. It's too real. There's no dynamic climax—only the winding down of everything. And you wonder why you've even invested interest into a character that never—moves on. Every indie film I've ever starred in has been a complete act of desperation."

Kerry beamed, eyes lit like fireflies.

"My favorite thing you ever did was that one flick from when you were nineteen. The manic-depressive girl you played. Amber Flax. She—I fell in love with her."

"Was it the smeared mascara—or the constant sex hair?"

Kerry's lips were pale, and pink—and three chapped lines at their center pulled, when she smiled, and became larger gaps.

"I think it was just…the first time I saw you."

Rachel shook her head.

"That wasn't me."

It was a soft sigh; factual, detached.

Kerry's smile didn't falter. She was very devout, Rachel guessed, or she was very dumb.

Rachel looked away.

"You know who would _love_ that awful movie, though?"

"Who—?"

"My—Quinn. My dense friend Quinn," she bit her bottom lip, "She'd like the protagonist."

"Which?—the boy you ran away with?"

Rachel pulled the sheets up to her cheek.

"No—the other one—the good one—the one that brought her home."

Kerry rolled over on her back, and turned light eyes to the ceiling. She cupped her hands contentedly against her sternum, and scoffed softly, "I thought that kid was such a pussy the whole time."

. . .

NY

. . .

"Read it," Stella collapsed into giggles, and had to grab at her midsection, "Read it aloud in a faux-British accent."

Quinn cleared her throat.

"Dear Booksellers:

The following reads on your closed front door: open 8 AM-6PM Monday through Saturday. Today (Monday) at eight _fifteen _AM (a time that firmly settles itself within the bracket of your open hours) however, I arrived to find—to my astonishment and disappointment—that you were closed. There were no notes on your door. It was not a national holiday. This type of behavior (though typical of small businesses) is inexcusable, and not something I would have attributed to your business before today. Please do not let it happen again.

Your disgruntled customer, Rosalind Feinstein."

Stella giggled into her palm. Dark eyes turned bright with tears, "_Damn it, _Quinn, we've disgruntled someone."

Quinn didn't seem fussed. She blew an eyelash off the tip of Stella's nose.

"Nobody—I swear to you on all those things we consider holy; books and coffee and turkey-bacon sandwiches from Sam's deli—no-bloody-body comes here at eight AM."

Stella crossed thin arms over her chest.

"But someone _does_—at eight-_fifteen _AM. And that person, when you find her— and she's given us her name, so no excuses on _that _end—will get a free book with her purchase and a personal apology from one Quinn Fabray for the unfortunate inconvenience."

Quinn's eyes slit. They were gold through light brown lashes—like the afternoon sun peaking through wooden fences.

"How did you settle on being a business-owner?—when you clearly feel so much disdain for profit-margins."

Stella clucked her tongue at her.

"I _settled _on a life surrounded by books. Business is a by-product. And the reason I hired you. Since you're clearly so," she waved a flippant hand at Quinn, "—money-over-bitches."

Quinn placed her elbow against the counter and cupped her cheek against her palm. She glanced at Stella obliquely, adoringly.

"Stel, you'll always be my doll-face."

Stella threw her head back, and laughed. She had a boisterous, spectacular laugh that always bubbled up in Quinn and made her giggle.

. . .

. . .

It's all happened before. The drowsy high school students, hanging around between the shelves. The fathers with the toothy-grinned thirteen year olds; getting dragged to the young adult columns. The college crowd, holding paper-cups of coffee. The obvious professors. The ironic, jobless twenty-somethings. No possible Rosalinds.

She glanced—with both brows raised—at the young woman currently checking out with her, "You wouldn't happen to be Rosalind, would you?"

The girl leant over the counter. Quinn's misty eyes roved her cleavage for a half-second before flicking to the dusty, dull-grey ceiling arches.

"No," the girl told her, with a smirk, "But boy do I wish I _was_."

It's all happened before.

And time passes anyway.

Quinn wondered why—if time passed constantly, and never stopped its mindless trek—it didn't change her scenery more often. Didn't twist around the characters. Didn't shake up the world.

_It just goes—in a dull, steady twirl around the sun. It just goes—whether I advance or halt completely._

She extended a hand to give the girl her change; frowning, preoccupied. The girl seemed to hate the look on her face, and left abruptly.

Quinn's palm was still curled around her three quarters, two dimes, and three pennies.

It's all happened before. It just suddenly felt really painful.

She let the change drop on the counter.

She hadn't realized that the hazy off-white that blurred within her eye-line was the floor until two spots of bright red became suddenly distinguishable.

She'd been gazing sentimentally at the floor. How _like _her, she thought. How like her to lose focus.

Her eyes stayed fixed on the sight.

They were some girl's bright red mary janes. They tapped against the floor, until the girl was so suddenly close that they disappeared beneath width of the counter.

"I like your shoes," Quinn said, and looked up.

The girl was rather tall, and thin. With limp blonde hair, brushed to rest behind her ears which were almost-comically large. She had serious blue eyes and rose-red lips. Her cheeks retained a natural, constant blush to them which made her seem younger than she likely was (and if it wasn't for the set of her eyes, she'd seem vulnerable too).

"Thank you," the girl spoke.

Quinn could tell by the lines between her brows that she'd caught her off-guard.

"I haven't worn these shoes since this phase I went through in high school. But I'm glad you like them."

Quinn thought she'd look pretty with a wreath of flowers around the crown of her head. She had the feeling she shouldn't say so. Stern blue eyes told her she shouldn't say so.

"Why'd you wear them today?"

"I was feeling irreverent."

This hadn't happened before. Rarely had people said things to her that, to her, seemed sensible.

"Oh. Okay. Makes sense."

Quinn's t-shirt sleeves were cut off right above the dip of her shoulders and if she wasn't mistaken, the lady's gaze lingered there.

She watched the books in the girl's hands. She wished she could discern the titles, but the girl held them up against her ribs like babes.

"You—wouldn't happen to be Rosalind?"

"Rosalind _Feinstein_?"

"Yes."

"Yes."

"Ha," Quinn let out a giddy breath of air, "So you're the obnoxious-letter girl, then?"

Blue turned cobalt, and Quinn turned cold.

"If you consider a healthy appreciation for promptness to be—somehow obnoxious—which—I can see—that you _do_, then _yes_."

Quinn nodded, with a smile, "I'm supposed to give you a free book and an apology."

"You can keep your free book and your lousy apology. I'd accept—if it seemed even _remotely _sincere."

"Hmm, do you want to know why we were late?"

The girl's eyes settled on a darker shade of blue. They reminded Quinn of her favorite blue marble, from so far into her youth she couldn't recall what age she'd been; only that it changed shade, like this girl's eyes, when she put it up against the sun.

"I, I hope there wasn't any type of medical emergency or—"

"Have you been to the coffee place next door—about a block and a half—"

"_No_."

"Incredible coffee, slow service—it was inevitable—unfortunate, of course—but inevitable either way."

The girl scoffed, "_Unbelievable_."

Quinn felt she took some sort of pleasure in the noise. She watched lithe, listless arms cradle books.

Quinn seemed—for a second—to hesitate. Her heart beat three times, slowly, as if stumbling, before she turned her head towards the back office, "Hey Stel! Come out for a sec!"

Stella emerged—as she always did—slow and dreamy and sweet, like wind in the springtime. She put her hands on her hips, "What's up?"

"This is Rosalind—Feinstein."

Stella nodded, slowly, gaze drifting from Quinn to the girl behind the counter, "Hmm—I apologize for the earlier inconvenience, Miss Feinstein. Quinn, did you explain our imminent circumstances to the lady?"

Quinn's brow quirked, "You mean—about the coffee?"

"_Fuck, _Quinn," Stella's dark eyes flickered, and rolled, "You didn't _lie_?"

"No."

Stella went on, without even the barest quaver, "Did you offer a book and an apology?"

"I did, but the young lady questions the sincerity of those gestures and refuses to accept."

"Hmm," Stella locked eyes with the girl, "It's _really _good coffee."

Rosalind raised a brow, "I've heard."

Quinn watched her rose-red mouth, "I was thinking—maybe, if you have the time, I can take my break and go and buy you a cup of coffee—at the place. If it isn't the best you've ever had, I'll formally apologize—with profound sincerity."

Rosalind and her kittenish blue eyes—a cobalt blue, like an electric spark—acquiesced.

Quinn found that those eyes could make her feel so cold and so hot—in a single, paradoxical look. It was unnerving—but new.

Stella watched them. She studied Rosalind. The girl was just an inch shy of Quinn's height. Her hips were slight. The curve of her ass was infinitesimal. She had honey-blonde hair. Pale-porcelain skin.

Maybe she'd been wrong about Quinn's type. Or maybe this girl was exceptional.

"I'll cover for you, then—sourpuss."

Her tone was a tad distracted.

. . .

. . .

"If you're going to escort me, then, you should do it correctly," Rosalind told her.

She made Quinn hold her books—with one arm—while the other remained free for Rosalind to cup her hands around. Quinn caught a brief trace of the smell of her hair. She smelled like some exotic flower.

Another scent wreathed itself around Quinn, possessively—sweet lilacs and lavender; pheromones that made her drowsy. Rachel.

It was as if her scent lived inside Quinn now. She carried it with her. To make her despondent. To make all other women feel foreign and strange.

She shook the thought off, visibly. Rosalind slit her electric blue eyes at her.

Quinn faked a smile; hoped it was charming.

"You're really going to _love _this place."

. . .

. . .

a/n: It's my birthday. And I've got so much—I wanted to give you something too. :)


	13. New York

Chapter 13: New York.

. . .

NY—_R _

. . .

Rachel loved the beautiful food smells of the city.

She loved everyone's guttural languages. She loved their every single gesticulation (even the birds they flipped).

She watched it adoringly, in a reverie. Months and months now seemed too long to be away from home.

She sighed sadly.

Kerry's large, stolid hand was heavy on her shoulder—it seemed far apart from her.

"Nervous—about the album? Now that it's—"

"No," she shook her head, "It's out of my hands now. And it'll be on the shelves soon. For people to pirate or purchase or…burn in a big orange fire of their disdain."

Kerry stared after Rachel as she walked; holding the girl's luggage over her own shoulder. Ashley was a few paces behind them (steadfast in her position—a pale, lanky shadow that hovered constantly near Rachel). She was pulling her own bags out of the cab they'd ridden from the airport.

Kerry exhaled a long sigh, "Your humor's strange sometimes, Rach."

Rachel shrugged, "So leave me."

It was cavalier—a desultory roll of dark eyes, and upturned wine-red lips. Kerry hated that expression. It was like a shot of whiskey—sliding hotly down her throat, sternum—settling wildly in her stomach. Hazy green eyes flicked over the sight, to Ashley. Her gaze hardened on wild red hair. She'd marked its contrast to every background from LA to New York and the hue now gave her motion sickness, "Hurry it up already!"

Ashley's bright brown deadpan eyes looked through her. Kerry felt the cold stare pass her like a ghost.

She'd never been in New York.

She breathed in its air, and coughed it all up.

. . .

Rachel watched them.

It was inevitable that she'd have them both in her living room, with their hands in their pockets—silently looking around.

Suitcases were piled up around her like a fort—she wanted to make a sign: _no other girls allowed_. She wanted everyone to float away. For the first time since breaking out of high school she longed for loneliness.

Kerry smiled at her, like a puppy seeking a pat on its head. Ashley had been steadily pouting at her for days.

She felt very suddenly tired. When a knock came to her door, she simply watched it 'til it opened.

Santana stood, framed by her open door —confident, smirking ironically—with Brittany attached at her pinky, looming innocently over the dark girl. Rachel thought it must've been _her _stare that opened the door. Santana was more prone to feats like those.

Charcoal-black eyes panned the room slowly and heavily.

"When you said you were bringing something home from Cali, I thought you meant _crabs_," she spoke at the room, eyes aimed at Kerry, "Which would have been more pleasant."

There was thick silence 'till Rachel moved forward—slowly, smiling—and wrapped her arms around Santana's neck. She pressed her face against her hair, "Missed you."

She breathed Santana's scent and felt relief (which just then, seemed very foreign a feeling), "I missed you."

The girl squeezed her once, and it felt much too brief. Tranquility seldom doesn't.

Stripped of her friend's embrace, her surroundings shocked her. The room seemed badly lit and distant.

"What sort of crab did you mean, San?" Brittany's bright voice rose up; clear and sweet, "Blue crab, horseshoe crab, snow crab, his royal highness _king crab_?"

"She meant crabs, the STD, crabs," Ashley murmured, her palm stroking down the scruff of her own nape, "I'm pretty sure."

Rachel exhaled a sharp breath (unwittingly, but still, quite rude amongst company you're meant to be hosting). Her cheeks grew hot.

"I'm going to make tea for—everyone," she spoke lowly, "You're big girls and you can introduce yourselves. So I'll just make tea. And we'll have a chat."

She walked to the kitchen—suddenly sure she seemed very small to everyone in the room. They watched after her carefully (Rachel felt their eyes, very heavy, upon the back of her head).

"You know me," Ashley muttered—from pensive lips—and turned to follow after Rachel.

"I'm Kerry," Kerry told them, hands at her pockets, walking alongside Ashley with slumped shoulders—spine hooked like a flower wilting under moonlight.

Santana's eyes followed them, mouth half-open, derisive brows reaching their peaks, "You believe these three? _God_, they're like the human centipede, just—forever attached at the anus, swallowing each other's crap."

Brittany's beautiful eyes made Santana roll hers, "_Fine_—I'll stop saying stuff like that out loud because it totally squicks you out and makes you want to cry."

Brittany smirked, "You don't have to. You know I never tell you what to do."

"Your eyes do, all the time."

Periwinkle eyes lit up.

"Je t'aime."

"What?"

"Oh—I mean—te amo."

Santana grew serious.

"Kiss me."

Brittany leant down and kissed her like she hadn't needed her insistence.

. . .

Rachel leant against the kitchen counter, wishing she'd ever learned to love cigarettes.

She closed her eyes. _Stop. _

Horrible thoughts had been coming to her unwittingly for weeks. Both the spring and summer of herself were over—this was fall; the last few leaves of her doe-eyed naiveté were falling off the tree. There would be winter. And then there would be—

"Do you have a migraine again?"

Kerry's voice held concern and many lovely things.

But the winter of herself was coming. And she might never again have a romantic thought about anything. Except cigarettes, gin and tonics, and the forever-single, cynical, sharp broad she'd one day be.

She wished she could find Quinn and tell her she'd been wrong—the best love stories are not in the wintertime. But she'd never ever seen the girl's apartment—except once, in a dream. It'd been a pale pink flat floating between New York and Ohio. She'd whispered it to Quinn in the morning, but the girl had only laughed and pulled the duvet back over their bodies.

"Rachel?—Migraine?"

"No," she blinked—realizing it'd been seconds since she'd last done it, "I'm fine. I—it's probably just jet-lag."

Ashley quirked a ruddy brow, "Between LA and New York?"

"Between _shut up _and _excuse you_."

Ashley pouted at her, "_Rach_el."

Rachel breathed a sigh somewhere between pitying and derisive, "Isn't there a derelict bar somewhere very close to here wherein young, despondent girls are just _waiting _for the opportunity to make a bad, knee-wobbling decision with some nameless bartender?"

Ashley smirked and shrugged.

"I don't have to be at work for a few more hours, thanks for asking."

Rachel held her stare—their eyes nearly the same hue.

"Just my luck."

Santana and Brittany arrived at the kitchen, giggling conspicuously. They broke Rachel's concentration, and she lost the heady, impromptu staring contest. Rife with, or completely lacking in, significance. She was too tired to care.

She turned to Santana, "Did anything of any import happen in my home?—and _please, _don't answer me with 'hot, interracial lady-loving atop your furniture' because I _swear_ I'll give Ashley my spare key to your place and a photo-copy of your schedules."

Ashley's brow peaked, "That'd save me _hundreds _in motel fees."

"You're trashy," Santana accused her, factually, without any malice.

Rachel took a careful sip of her tea, "So—nothing important?"

Santana watched the steam rise from the rim. She took only a second, before she steeled her jaw, "No, nothing important."

Brittany turned to meet her eyes—hers were purposefully dull; disappointed (not periwinkle but sad cerulean). It was a look that had killed Santana dozensof times over. "Well," she hesitated; licked her lip, "Quinn Fabray stopped by once or whatever."

Blood fled Rachel's limbs at the name. She cupped both her hands over the tea cup. She wondered if every mention of Quinn's name from here to forever would give her vertigo.

"What did she want?"

Kerry's eyes slit—beaming at Rachel. Her gaze was always sliding over the girl; slow, methodical, exhaustive, "Who's Quinn Fabray?"

Santana snorted.

"Quinn Fabray is a neurotic Christian closet-case whose lesbian fingers suffer from erectile dysfunction."

"Oh."

Rachel shook her head.

"What did she _want_?"

Dark eyes turned to Rachel then—soft, and warm (for once, they didn't seem quite so impenetrable), "I didn't find out or anything."

Rachel swallowed, dryly, "You threw her out?"

"Hell _yeah _I threw her out."

Rachel set her cup on the counter. It clinked against it.

"I think—I think that Ash and Brit should show Kerry around New York. She's been here for three hours and she hasn't seen Times Square—it's blasphemous."

Kerry shuffled in place, "_You _aren't?—"

"I have a migraine again."

Her eyes latched on Santana's; gaze unyielding.

. . .

NY—Q

. . .

"She's not unremarkable," Quinn said, "She's interesting. I think you'll find her interesting."

She was sat atop the bookstore's countertop, leaning into Sloan who lounged Indian-style beside her.

She patted her dress pocket; feeling for movement.

"And she keeps you _constantly_ on your phone," he winked, "Demanding, isn't she?"

"Very."

"And beautiful."

Quinn nodded, "Very."

He inhaled a deep breath, and sang, "Quinnie's got a _girl-_friend."

She shook her head on his shoulder.

"We've only been dating. We don't talk about—" she exhaled a breath, "Being—that sort of—_thing_."

"Girlfriends?"

"Yes, _that _thing."

He hummed at her, "I see."

Her phone buzzed to life beside her waist; loud and grating. For a second she thought she'd been feeling butterflies, finally fluttering to life in her stomach.

How silly—_it's just the hollow drone a cellphone makes._

She kissed Sloan's jaw, "Sorry. That must be her."

"By all means."

She took the phone from her pocket, and cupped it in her palm—glancing at the screen for long, dismal seconds.

"It's my mother," she told Sloan, "You're going to have to watch me lie."

His brows furrowed.

She rubbed at the scruff on his cheek with a thumb, already feeling weak and treacherous.

"Mommy, hello. Hi—good. No, I—I'm sorry. I tried to reach you maybe two weeks ago. I did. I did _too_."

There was a pause wherein Quinn cradled her forehead in her hand and raked her nails high up her scalp. She'd never seemed, to Sloan, more tortured.

"Yes, still working here—I _like _it. It's—_no_—because, because I haven't met one I _like _yet. _No_—it's not—God, it's not like I liked the boys in _Ohio _any better. At least men here tend to dress nicely. Yes, at least that's _something_. Yes, maybe my standards are high. Look Mommy, I'm a little bu—when am I visiting? It's just…hectic now. _Yes, _at the bookstore. It's just…a little crazy now. I actually have to—Mommy, I—I gotta go. I gotta go, but I'll—I'll call you in a few weeks. And then maybe—OK—Love you. Buh-bye."

Sloan watched her. She was bent so far into herself, she nearly rested atop her own thighs.

"You look like Atlas."

She eyed him wearily, from her peripheral, "I feel like I let the world fall."

He worried his lip, and sighed through a few false-starts before saying, "It's hard to come out of the closet."

"Yes, it is—"

"_But,_" his voice was firm, and gentle, "It's harder to live your life inside of one. It becomes _increasingly_ harder working to stay in it. Denying yourself, over and over, the right to be honest about who you are. You start to think you must really be a monster—and you lie, because you have to lock yourself away. The lies are the bars that keep the ones you love away from the monster, and so, they're very necessary. It seems almost courteous to others to do so. You forget how it feels to _be_ someone. You ration parts of yourself off to people, but are never whole with anyone. Not even with people who are privy to your secret. Because you have to limit them—keep them away from those who can't know, and still balance everyone and everything on this very, very slender tightrope you're on. It's…I can't imagine a scenario…for people like you and me…where it would be worth it."

The last syllable hung heavily between them. Quinn's eyes were bright in that way that always killed him. She was—for a very long time—completely silent.

"I _can't_," she breathed at him, "I _can't_, Sloan. I don't want to have to tell my mom that I'm gay. All right? That was the first—that was my very first thought, when I first figured it all out. _Fuck, _you know? I'm gonna have to tell _mom _this. I'm gonna have to look her in the eye and tell her I grew up to be something that she _hates_. And there's nothing she can do. And there's nothing left for me to try. You don't understand—"

He squinted at her, "You think I don't understand—that fear—Quinn, _c'mon_. I get it. She's your _mother_. But to some extent—it's not just gay people—all kids grow up, and all parents have their love tested. It's the way it goes. And if they can't learn to love us—then they have to learn to let us go. But either way—_you_ need this. You need her to know. Or else you're just—a sad, guilty Atlas watching the world float further and further away from you."

Her jaw clenched, and she slid a hand across it, "Sloan—just—"

He leaped off the counter top, swift and easy, "Yeah, all right."

. . .

NY—_R _

. . .

She wondered what the chances were that they would ever find each other, by fate or accident, on the same street. Perhaps they'd go into the same yellow taxi, each entering from either side of it, and their eyes would meet. Perhaps their carts would bump against each other, along a particularly slender aisle in the grocery store, and their eyes would meet. Perhaps they'd jog across the same path in central park, each starting from an opposite direction, at the same pace, and in the middle they'd cross, and their eyes would meet. Their eyes would meet and there'd be no complications.

Quinn had never told her how long she'd lived in New York. How long had they'd shared a city, never crossing paths? Ignorant that someone out there in this flurry of movement—somewhere within the grimy cement and brown brick tenements— felt like home. There was a girl that lived here, whose heartbeat could lull her into the sweetest sleep—and Rachel was forever doomed to miss her.

"What if she—" her eyes flickered finally, away from Santana's, "What if she came to say she'd changed?"

"They never do," Santana told her, "They could _lie_—because they're used to using lies but—they don't come knocking a week later suddenly different."

Rachel scoffed, shook her head, "As if you've never _been _there."

"You're right," Santana smirked, and it was sharp and cutting as it always was (curved like a shark fin), "When I was sixteen I was just as repressed and closeted and scared as the _twenty-something_ year old woman-child you fell in stupid-love with months ago. Who is _probably _still in the exact same place. With just as much potential to break you again—at least _this _time there isn't much more left of you to fuck up."

"That's unnecessarily cruel," her voice was clipped—a migraine was swirling to life at the back of her head, twisting slowly, like a tornado's first stirrings.

"_Is _it, little Lothario?" Santana licked her lips, "I don't even know what you're _doing _anymore."

Thunder clapped at her temples.

"I brought her here so I didn't have to be—but now I just want to be alone."

Santana rolled her eyes— "She looks like Quinn."

"She looks like _Finn_—her brow, and the way she pouts her lips to say things she never ends up getting out."

Santana grabbed a fistful of her hair, "God—you're right."

"It's disconcerting. The first time I noted the resemblance I wanted to cry."

"Well—yes," Santana sighed, "The fact that she reminds you of an ex-boyfriend whose singular attribute was his pliable squishy-ness _is_ a tad unnerving."

"She does seem safe—in that Finn way. Like—I could go anywhere, and if I ever turned around I know she'd still be there, following after me."

"_How'd _that end up with Finn again?" Santana's lips pursed, "Oh yeah—he's a bitter Lima grease-monkey who sighs whenever someone mentions you and—_you _send him elaborate Christmas gifts out of some misplaced sense of guilt every year."

"Well Kerry doesn't _need _her own future, because Kerry's parents did many great things I can't specifically outline because I can't particularly recall them and she has so much money that working is completely uncalled for and practically a slap to their faces. So I don't see the harm."

Santana's eyes bulged, and she groaned, incredulously, "You don't see the harm in letting someone fall for you when you could give a fuck-all about them?—and _God_, it's so fucking _obvious _I wish I could turn the fact into a glove and slap each of your faces with it. And what for? Just so you could feel a little better about your broken heart?"

"_Shut up_!" Rachel's foot stomped on the kitchen floor, she felt like David, without a single rock to throw, "Do you even have any _idea _what it feels like to be me right now? It's like I'm love's wastebasket—stuck with a pile of all its crumpled up ideas. I just want something more. I just want what _you _have, you asshole. I _love _Quinn—and _you_, you think it's all right to keep the fact that she came here away from me for _months_, and tell me _now _like she's—some sort of an afterthought. Well she's not an afterthought to me, Santana!"

"Well maybe she should be!" cords rose beneath Santana's throat, to the surface—it'd been a long time since they'd fought this hard; her heart pulsed painfully, "Maybe you need to move the fuck on, already. And in a _healthy_ way. Not—some parade of harlots in your kitchen on Sunday morning!"

"Ashley is _not _a harlot—she's my best friend," Rachel shuddered; big gleaming tears falling from her eyes, "She wouldn't lie to me about Quinn. She doesn't judge me for loving someone who hurt me. Do you think I get to _pick_? I left her. Isn't that enough? Didn't I do _good_ for myself?—I left her. But—what?—I don't get to mourn her absence because it _bores _you?—_fuck _you."

Santana grasped her shaking shoulders.

"Fuck you."

She slid a hand down soft brown hair, and kissed wet cheeks—kissed the tears that slid down her chin, "I'm sorry."

"Fuck you, fuck you—fuck you."

She kissed her lips—they tasted like salt and waxy cherry chapstick, "I'm sorry—I'm sorry, Rachel. I'm so, so sorry."

Rachel sighed against her mouth. All she felt was loss. Even against the warmth, and strength, and gentle sturdiness of Santana's aura, all she felt was loss.

. . .

. . .

a/n: so clearly a few months have passed between the last two chapters and this one.


End file.
